


The Profiler in the Therapist

by rebaobsessions



Series: Crossover Attempts [7]
Category: Bones (TV), Criminal Minds
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Sweets-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2018-10-21 05:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10678809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebaobsessions/pseuds/rebaobsessions
Summary: Dr. Lance Sweets is no longer the innocent eager psychologist he was a little over a year and a half ago. His time as a prodigy profiler at the BAU was a blessing. His time in a serial killer's basement was not.Now, scarred but healed, Sweets is 'retired' to calmer job in the FBI as a therapist. As he helps others, he helps himself.But... is it enough? What will he do when one of his most fascinating (unwilling) patients asks for help on a case? How will his new team take his past as his secrets slowly start to come out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I had this huge brain cannon one night about Sweets being an actual profiler, and I just couldn't get rid of it. I have loads of other stories I really should be working on when I have time instead of starting new ones, but I just couldn't help it. This is Season 3 Bones and Season 5 Criminal Minds. I had to shift the timing around some.
> 
> I'd like to note that this is not entirely the Sweets we know from the actual series; he's one year older physically and ages older mentally/emotionally. He has more experience and confidence in some respects, and is way more vulnerable.  
> If anyone is wondering why Booth (or anyone else for that matter) doesn't know that Sweets was a competent BAU field agent, well... his experience isn't classified. It's just kinda painful. He doesn't talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set during "Boy in the Time Capsule" and I did take some dialogue from it. I promise this won't be one of those word-for-word fics! Cross my heart and hope to die!! Most scenes will be between the lines (so to speak), and the scenes that do mirror those from the series will be more and more drastically altered as Sweets' differences to canon come to light. (Also set after "Hopeless" from Criminal Minds)
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think.

Dr. Lance Sweets, aged 23, FBI psychologist and therapist, stared at the file in his hand with no little trepidation. This wasn’t the plan. He didn’t do this anymore. His days of profiling dangerous killers and analyzing the most disturbing of humanity were over. He helped people now. He listened to problems and sifted through fears; he eased PTSD and performed psych evaluations. No more blood, or gore, or death, except the ghosts in his patients’ minds.

But this…

A 20 year old murder; a handful of evidence frozen in time (and, apparently, goo) while the rest was washed away in day-to-day life; an FBI agent and a forensic anthropologist (who Lance would admit to being fascinated by) asking for help despite their doubt of his field.

It was… enticing.

He shouldn’t even be considering it. He should be _terrified_ of getting involved in violent cases again. In fact, Sweets wouldn’t have been surprised if merely _looking_ at the case file had sent off a panic attack.

No. That’s not right; he wasn’t being fair to himself— and more importantly that wasn’t an accurate profile of Dr. Lance Sweets, ex-BAU agent.

Dr. Sweets became a profiler for a reason. He had a painful past, but had been aided and loved, and possessed a deep desire to return the favor. Geeky Lance passed every physical examination, caught the eye of the most renowned FBI profiler, and was hand-picked as the second ever 22 year old BAU recruit for a _reason_. He was passionate and intelligent, with both the drive and knowledge to catch killers. And he had _liked_ it—every aspect of it, from the mind-numbing days of paper work, to the challenge of solving puzzle after human puzzle, to the horrible adrenalizing fear that they might not solve it in time, to the gratify rush after a killer was caught and a victim saved… He had _loved_ being a profiler.

So no. A panic attack wasn’t on the table—not for something as trivial and routine as analyzing behavioral patterns from notes and observations. He wasn’t _that_ broken. Considering this case, longing for the job he had relinquished… it was natural. Lance would _love_ to profile again.

And, truth be told, analyzing this case wasn’t the problem. Not really. The problem was what helping with this case would inevitably lead to.

The problem was field work. It wouldn’t happen right away. Maybe not for years. But Dr. Sweets was no fool; he knew what type of man Agent Booth was, what type of woman Dr. Brennan was, and most importantly, what type of man he himself was. Eventually, someday, maybe _years_ in the future, they’d need an extra pair of hands or a set of behaviorally-focused eyes, and he’d help. Despite everything, he’d help them.

The problem was missing field work desperately. The problem was knowing he could _never_ approach field work like he used to—not after what had happened to him.

The _problem_ was that Dr. Lance Sweets was _afraid_ of going back into the field.

Lance felt like his office was squeezing in on him—like the trash compactor on the Death Star—and he couldn’t see a way out. He had been so careful, these past few months, sticking to helping people deal with normal, everyday, personal problems. He had been so careful to stay firmly on the path leading _away_ from criminals and serial killers and tireless night picking apart delightful puzzles and saving lives and jumping in front of bullets… But now that path was disappearing.

He knew what he was going to do. There was no way he could deny himself.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Lance tossed the file onto his little coffee table and dug out his cell phone. Without having to think, his fingers dialed a familiar number. It rang once.

“Office of Knowledge, speak and be heard,” a cheery voice rang out.

“Garcia,” Sweets breathed out, tension already bleeding from his shoulders.

The woman on the other end let out a little gasp, “Boy Wonder Junior! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“You’re not on a case right now, are you? I don’t want to—”

“Relax, my geeky knight,” Garcia chuckled, “It’s as slow as a snail here today.”

Lance huffed a weak laugh, “That’s good.”

“Is it ever, Sir Sweetness! Let me tell you… It’s going to take me _weeks_ of cute kitten videos before I wipe my retinas clean this time.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” she gave a little sigh, “But on the bright side, we caught them before they got anyone else. Well.  We _caught_ one of them. The other two got to skip the whole jail and arrest thing and bought their one way tickets downstairs.”

“Suicide by cop, I take it?”

“Right in one, Lancelot,” Garcia declared with a forced happy  tone.

“Penelope,” Sweets ventured, “You alright?”

She chuckled, “Sure thing, Sweets. I’m right as rain. What’s up with you? Get bored of your horridly drab, FBI standard-issue, grey, grey, and grey office walls?”

“Well, I’ll happily admit I appreciate that drawer of colored toys you shoved on me more and more lately,” he smiled fondly, picturing the FBI analyst in her undoubtedly vibrant glory.

“Oooh, Junior, do I get to say ‘I told you so’ now?”

The FBI psychologist laughed outright, “I think you just did.”

“Huh,” Garcia said, as though surprised, “That I did. Buuut… you, my soft gushy heart-shaped treat, are stalling. What’s up? Do you need me to hack someone? Toootally against regulation, but nothing stops the Oracle of Quantico.”

“No. No. I just…” Lance slumped a little in his seat, “I had an FBI agent, who’s an unwilling patient of mine, ask me for a profile.”

“Really? What’d you say?”

He swallowed hard. “I haven’t.”

On the other end, the hacker sighed, “But you already know what you’re going to do.”

“Are you sure you’re not a profiler, Garcia?” a slight smile played at his lips as he gazed unseeing at his office door.

“Hey!” she snarked, “Bonafide genius here; you pick up on stuff. Besides, I know every one of my lovelies like the back of my hand.” After a brief pause, she prompted, “So?”

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You’re not going to be running into any gunfights anytime soon, Sweetness,” Penelope pointed out, “Are you?”

“No,” he conceded.

“And we all know how sad you were to leave the profiling behind. This is like a happy medium.”

“You think?”

“Sure! No bloody crime scenes, no deranged suspects, no risk to life or limb…”

“Yet,” he interrupted.

“Yet,” she agreed, “But maybe someday you’ll be ready for the whole package again.”

Sweets heaved another large sigh, “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Listen, you know what JJ would say.”

“Yeah. She’d say to take it one step at a time.”

“So do this case. Dazzle that FBI-issued stick-in-the-mud. Use that brilliant brain of yours—stretch your muscles so-to-speak. See how it goes.”

“Just this case.”

“Yeah,” (he could hear her smiling), “And maybe the next one too.”

“You know me too well.”

“No such thing, sugar plum!”

For a long moment, they both sat in silence, soaking up each other’s presence, despite the miles between them. It was refreshing.

Garcia finally broke the silence, “We’re here for you, Sweets. All of us.”

“Thanks, Garcia.”

“And we’ve still got our eyes out, you know. We’ll catch him.”

Sweets closed his eyes at the reminder. For just a split moment he smelled iron—blood and rust—and heard the echo of his own scream, hoarse and faint with over-use. For just a moment, he felt the ache of long-healed wounds, fresh as the day they were made.

But just as quickly, Garcia broke through the flashback, “We’ll catch him and stop him just like we’ve stopped every other killer we’ve come across. And maybe—” her voice broke a bit, “Maybe once we’ve got him, you won’t worry so much.”

“I don’t know about that, Pen, but thanks.”

“Always, Lance. Always.”

* * *

“Alright, Sweets,” Agent Booth settled himself comfortably beside Dr. Brennan on her office couch, “What’ve you got for us?”

“Ok, right,” Lance swept up his notes and took a second to gather his thoughts. The profile had been a great deal more challenging than he expected. For one, he was simply out of practice, but there was also the factor where he was used to profiling serial killers, not one-off murderers driven by things like revenge or passion rather than sexual gratification. “The murder happened at night on a high school playing field. That’s not a likely place to find adults. Plus, teenagers are swamped by hormones which makes them act irrationally. In fact, physiologically, their judgement’s impaired by an incomplete frontal lobe.” Sweets took a breath to continue on, drawing up on a few obscure statistics Reid had shared with him once, but before he could get side tracked, he was interrupted.

Booth gave a slight smile, “You know what… 23, right? How’s your frontal lobe. Almost there?” The grown agent was almost snickering.

Sweets stopped and stared at the man. “Really, Agent Booth?” he asked exasperatedly. He understood teasing. Hell, Derek Morgan was the personification of teasing—especially with Reid. But this… This was unprofessional. It was an insult veiled as a joke.

 _Why_ had he agreed to help this man again?

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, just keep going,” Booth gestured broadly at the young profiler.

Sweets huffed, but continued on. “There were several key behavioral characteristics I picked up on. For one, there was no theft—the watch and other affects were still on him—which indicates the unsub didn’t plan the murder; they—”

“Whoa there,” Booth held up a hand, “Unsub?”

“Unknown subject. It’s a common profiling term for the perpetrator to avoid any accidental bias. That being said, I would say it’s safe to narrow the unsub down to a white teenage male.”

“That’s pure speculation!” Dr. Brennan objected.

“Actually, it’s not only supported by the evidence, which I was getting to, but by statistics as well. Over 90% of killers are male, and if the victim is white there is a 70% chance that the killer is also white.” Sweets paused for a second, but was satisfied by Brennan’s thin-lipped silence. “Anyway, the unsub didn’t take any of the victim’s personal items which indicates they either did not know about their existence, or did not care for them. Additionally, there was no sexual assault or mutilation, meaning the motive was likely not sexual in nature—either in typical psychopathy or in a form of revenge. This all indicates that the murder was rash and youthful—a crime of anger in the heat of a moment. An argument gone wrong.”

“Yeah! That’s good… for a kid,” the agent seemed pleased, and while Lance was grateful for that, he was rather ticked off that the older man had dismissed him yet again because of his age.

Ugh.

“This is guess work, Booth!” Brennan protested.

“It’s a logical interpretation and subjective analysis by a highly intelligent expert in his field, actually.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and Sweets mentally hit himself. It was much more difficult doing this around skeptics without a competent team to back him up; it was so easy to get defensive. Shaking himself, he moved on, “The killer knew the exact date the time capsule would be opened when he put the victim in there. He’s been waiting 20 years for that body to be found so he could reconcile himself with his past and finally pay for his crime.”

“Like Terry Stinson,” Booth filled in eagerly.

“No.” Sweets sighed, “This unsub didn’t touch anything that belonged to the victim; he regretted what he did the moment it happened. You’re looking for someone who’s been punishing himself for years, someone who’s been self-destructive, working far below his potential.”

“Why wouldn’t he just confess?”

“Most likely, he has in some way, Agent Booth. The question is… were you listening.”

“Agent Booth is an incredibly good listener,” Brennan protested defensively.

“Yeah, I am. It’s my strength,” Booth bristled as well.

“I’m confident you are, Agent Booth, but that’s not what I meant. The unsub likely didn’t outright confess. He probably expressed some sort of regret or idyllic nostalgia in relation to the victim.”

Booth opened his mouth—no doubt to continue being defensive—and Sweets sighed. He was slamming his metaphorical head against the figurative wall. Booth _asked_ for his help, but it was clear he didn’t really _want_ it. Logically, Sweets knew that he was right and (because he was right) they would eventually concede that his line of inquiry was valid as well, but he was frustrated none the less. Needless to say, this case didn’t go exactly as he had hoped.

But, at the same time, it had been wonderful to (as Garcia put it) stretch his muscles. It had been exciting to be the lone profiler on the case as well—it was different than working with a team. Not bad, not good, just… different.

And right now, that was exactly what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Garcia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Sweets take profiling his first serial killer since the BAU and his fateful experience?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm back with another chapter really quickly this time!  
> This chapter is set during "The Knight on the Grid" from Bones. No dialogue was taken directly from the episode. Also set after "Cradle to Grave" from Criminal Minds.
> 
> I am in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM educated on PTSD or any other mental disorders/issues/conditions. If I misrepresent ANYTHING I apologize. Similarly I'm NOT a profiler and don't even understand everyday human behavior sometimes. My word is fiction. Pure and simple.

It was quiet. Not quite silent, but as quiet as it got in DC. Outside his office windows, Sweets could see the eerie pale cast of the streetlights suffusing the night air like a mist. Below, on the road, the constant rush of wind from passing cars was the only sound.

He was alone. Normally he would welcome the quiet, but being left with his thoughts was not doing him any favors at the moment.

Lance was firmly ensconced behind his desk, a collection of files scattered across the surface in disarray. In his hands, the young profiler held a single photo. He hadn’t moved in quite some time. He simply sat there and stared… Stared at the stretched, prone-looking form of the silver skeleton.

Gormogon.

After weeks of nothing, this was the second case Agent Booth asked for help with…and it was one of the most notorious serial killers _ever_ : a ritualistic cannibal connected to a supposedly extinct secret society.

Just think about that for a second. A secret society, conspiracies, delusions, rituals, cannibalism. Lots of cannibalism. It sounded like some crappy old horror film.

Swallowing hard, Sweets forced himself to set the picture aside and pick up another. This one was of the vault; the extensive vault filled to the brim with expensive and rare artifacts. What did that say about the history of this so called society?

The next picture Lance picked up gave him pause. It was of two bloody kneecaps resting on a stained and elaborately decorated piece of fabric. The blood wasn’t anything the profiler hadn’t become used to, but…

What the _hell_ was he doing?

Solving a crime of passion between two teenage boys that happened 20 years ago was _very_ different than studying a prolific and very active serial killer.

They had bones from seven different victims, a vault full of old artifacts indicating a much longer history than they could guess, and a killer bold enough to send pieces of his latest victim to the expert working his case.

It wasn’t like anything Sweets had encountered at the BAU.

Well, he had some frame of reference. For example, there was Foyet. He was bold and confident, unafraid of law enforcement, and took great pleasure in tormenting his investigative team; just look at Hotch. He was controlled and self-aware, capable of ceasing all violent acts for over a decade.

And then there was Frank—a mobile, tireless, sadistic serial killer who killed a staggering total of 177 individuals over a span of thirty years without anyone connecting the victims. He was a textbook sexual sadist who dismembered his victims alive, forcing them to watch. He thrived on fear.

Then there were cannibals, like Floyd Ferell. Cannibals ate flesh for power— primarily spiritual power. They were generally not sexual sadists, although it was possible for them to express sadistic behaviors. Often displaying some form of mental illness, they were driven by an all-consuming hunger.

So, Sweets had experience, but he had only been involved in Ferell’s case, and was not officially supposed to know about Foyet. But this experience didn’t help as much as it should have.

Gormogon was just as confident as Foyet. He did not, however, display the same pathology. And, like Frank, Gormogon was likely prolific, based on the history of the vault, and was just as good at staying away from law enforcement. However, Gormogon was not a sadist. And finally, although definitely a cannibal, something about Gormogon just didn’t quite fit with the average flesh-eater. He was controlled, meticulous, patient… careful. And, most importantly, he _shared…_ and the kid he had shared with was _not_ a classic submissive personality.

Everything seemed to be pointing to someone who was not driven by sadism or mental illness, someone intelligent with a political agenda, and severe delusions that they wanted spread. Just one kid at a time.

Like a teacher and student.

How far back did cannibalism go amongst the people who used that vault? Would they find bones from more victims? Or was Gormogon the original master-mind? Had he found the silver skeleton and gone ‘oh! I should replace each of these bones with a piece of someone I eat’? It was doubtful… This had the hallmark of tradition. For example, this whole widow’s son thing could _not_ be a coincidence….

Lance’s mind swirled with questions and theories, blurring like a particularly fast rollercoaster ride. But, no… no. _Stop._ His mind ground to a painful halt, one of the more messy pictures filling his field of view. It was effective in stopping is work-flow.

Dumbfounded, Sweets stared at the pages of notes in his own hasty scrawl scattered amongst the crime scene photos and detailed evidence logs.

This wasn’t what he had intended.

He forced himself to drop his pen and scrambled away from his desk and the piles of evidence and connections and suppositions. A little wildly, Sweets stumbled over to his couch and collapsed, head in hand. Distantly, he noticed he felt rather nauseous. And dizzy. He felt like he had climbed a mountain.

 _Panic attack,_ his mind supplied helpfully.

Well, great.

He hadn’t had a panic attack since he had finished his psych evaluation and transferred to the DC office. It had been _months._ But…but least he wasn’t having a flashback too. Those were more common but not as difficult to control. Which was a little strange. But, well, that was the human mind: strange.

PTSD manifested in many different ways and was caused by all sorts of things; war, death, injury, emotional trauma, physical trauma…. Triggers were just as varied. But, some people didn’t display many symptoms—amazingly. Hell, Sweets had worked with several of them. It was part of the reason he had felt so guilty about leaving the BAU even though everyone had understood and encouraged him.

Sweets huffed a sigh… then froze. Lifting his head from his hands, he smiled. The panic attack was gone. He could breathe again.

Hesitantly, he looked back over his shoulder at the pile of files and notes. Maybe… maybe he could do this. He knew he really did want to help Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan, even if they weren’t super welcoming. And he really did enjoy profiling—even, perhaps especially, serial killers. Sweets had been fascinated to see Gormogon’s vault, to hear the team work. He wanted more of that.

It was true that he was terrified. After all, Gormogon was taunting Dr. Brennan and it was likely that she or one of her colleagues could be seriously harmed. Sweets was seeing Foyet torture his old team at the BAU, and he didn’t want the same for the team at the Jeffersonian. He didn’t want to watch another team struggle so much....

But he could _help_ them. It could be painful, potentially even traumatic, but he might—just might—be able to help stop another killer.

How could he possibly turn away from that chance?

Re-energized with determination and resolve, the profiler returned to his desk, set on organizing his notes into some form of coherency. He would do his best—his absolute best—for this new team.

* * *

Sweets had managed to keep it together for the entire day.

His help the previous day had been better received than expected, even though Dr. Brennan was still quite resistant. Many of his theories had been proven true in the space of time between Booth giving him the file and him delivering the profile, which helped his credibility. Most notably, Dr. Hodgins and Agent Booth had recovered a completed skeleton done by Gormogon and the _previous_ Gormogon.

Sweets was not exactly pleased that he had been proven correct.

Then, this morning, he had found out that Dr. Addy had discovered a network of mirrors that allowed Gormogon to observe everything that went on in his vault and that Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had devised a plan to divulge false information while inside the vault and set a trap for the killer. Lance was mildly terrified at that news. While a good plan, there were so many ways it could go wrong.

Later that afternoon, his fears were confirmed when he learned about the bomb Gormogon had dropped, nearly killing the agent-anthropologist pair.

Thankfully, having learned about it via email in his office, Sweets was able to have his quiet panic attack _before_ heading to the Jeffersonian. Ostensibly it was to expound more on his profile with this added information (Gormogon meant to kill them; it was a symbolic bite. He’s developed a deep personal hatred for the team. He likely won’t stop…); in reality, Lance was almost desperate to reassure himself that they were both alive and relatively unharmed.

Save for a few nasty bruises and cuts, they were.

Shaken but relieved, Sweets had returned to his office and finished off his remaining appointments. Helping the various FBI agents and consultants helped calm him even further.

That was, of course, until he got home.

Now he sat on his couch, staring at the far wall, his mind running through all the possibilities. All the different ways it could have gone, and all the ways Gormogon could still destroy the Jeffersonian team. Lance had done the same thing when he had learned about Hotch being attacked in his own apartment, before being left at a nearby hospital by Foyet himself.

It was too much, having two horrible obsessive serial killers targeting people he loved or was coming to care deeply about. It was just his luck and entirely unfair.

Sweets was crying. Why, exactly, he didn’t know. And honestly he didn’t care. He was just very, very grateful it wasn’t another panic attack.

He sat there for some time, lost in dark thoughts, before the familiar ring of his cell phone shook him out of his trance-like state.

He hurriedly wiped off his face and cleared his voice before answering, “Dr. Sweets.”

“Hi,” the voice greeted on the other end, the owner clearly smiling, “Lance.”

Despite his previous mindset, a smile spread across his own face, “Hey, JJ.”

“How’s the youngest profiler I know?” she asked when he said nothing more.

He quickly deflected, “Oh, I’m alright. How are you? And the team? Did you wrap up that case in Albuquerque?”

“Yeah, yeah we did,” she sighed, “It was a big one, but everyone got out completely unscathed. We even saved a couple kids and a new mom.”

“Good,” he said, relieved, “good.”

“Are you sure _you’re_ ok?” JJ prodded, “You sound drawn out. Bad day?”

Despite himself, Sweets gave a dry laugh, “You could say that.”

“What happened?”

“Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth—do you remember them?”

“Yeah. You’ve been having sessions with them, and Agent Booth asked for your help on a case a few weeks ago. Is Dr. Brennan still being difficult?”

“She is, but that’s not…” he sighed, “Well, two days ago Booth asked for my help again. Today… they nearly got blown up.”

“What?” JJ asked, shock coloring her tone.

“Yeah. Um…” Sweets paused, a little unsure about what his old team member would think about the case he’d become involved in, “Have you heard about Gormogon?”

“Not… officially, but word gets around.” She paused. “Are you telling me you’re consulting on a cannibalistic serial killer case and said serial killer nearly blew up the lead investigators?”

“Yes?” he answered hesitantly.

“Were you there? Are you ok?”

Lance sighed, “I’m just consulting; I was nowhere near the bomb.”

“That’s a relief.” A moment later she asked, “Are they ok?”

“Yeah. A little torn up, but no serious damage.”

“And… how are you taking it?”

“About as well as can be expected, I suppose.” JJ said nothing; Sweets could practically see her raise her eyebrows expectantly. He admitted reluctantly, “But… I’ve had two panic attacks in the past three days. One was after I heard the news.”

“When was the first?” the media liaison was sounding more and more concerned.

He grimaced; he didn’t want to admit it, but… “Just after I had compiled a preliminary profile.”

“Sweets…” JJ started hesitantly.

“I know,” he cut her off, certain he knew what she was going to say since he’d been telling himself for days, “But I could help, and—”

“That’s not what I mean. You know how hypocritical that would be for _any_ one of us to say. We… we’re just worried about you, Sweets.” She heaved a big sigh, “We were all so relieved that you were taking time to recover. Then we were all relieved you were taking a safer job…”

“JJ…” his voice was thick with emotion.

“We’re guilty, Lance,” she cut him off, “We’re guilty that we didn’t get to you sooner, and we’re afraid that something similar could happen to you again. It’s not rational— we all have the same job—but it’s _true_. I was the same way after Hankel had Reid.”

“I know.” _Damn it_. He was going to start crying again…

“It’s just the idea that something could’ve happened to you…” she sighed, “I don’t want to stop you; I think it’s wonderful you’re profiling again. We all know how much you love it.”

“Yeah…” he choked out.

“But you need to take it slow, ok?” Now it sounded like _she_ was going to cry. “For me? Don’t push yourself. If you have problems with… with panic attacks, or nightmares, or flashbacks… just promise me you’ll stop and take a break. ”

For a moment Lance merely struggled to blink away his tears and to form coherent sound. He loved JJ like the older sister he’d never had. He loved that entire team; they were his family. They supported him through _everything_ from the moment he joined the BAU. They supported him when his parents died, and they supported him when cases got to be too much. They taught him how to profile, and they taught him how to laugh again. They were the best of the best in every way. In fact, they _found_ him, when no one else could, and then they supported him even more.

“I… I promise.” He swallowed hard, “For you, JJ… and the others; I’ll be careful.”

JJ sniffled a little, “We’re here for you, Sweets, all of us. As far as we’re concerned, you’re still a part of this team. And you always will be.”

 _Yes,_ he thought, smiling through his tears, _After all… family is forever._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insert: unseasonable Christmas chapter.  
> Also... a larger window into Sweets' relationship with the BAU team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode is set just after "Santa in the Slush". I've also declared that the BAU had a long break after "The Eyes Have It". Not canon, but just deal with it.  
> It's quite a bit quieter than the other chapters. Major fluff ahead....

It had been a quiet month for Dr. Sweets. Following the excitement of Gormogon’s attack on the Jeffersonian team, there had been an unsettling lack of action. There had been no movement from the cannibal and no murders that fell under their jurisdiction, so the team occupied their time by going over the Gormogon evidence (over and over), solving cold cases from the bone room, and consulting on various other cases and projects. At least, that was what Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth shared during their sessions with him—when they weren’t complaining, bickering, or actually doing what he asked.

As for the BAU, Lance received a few phone calls from a selection of team members every week, as usual. They’d been busy for quite a while, but as far as he could gather the last case they’d finished up was two weeks ago in Oklahoma City. Something about an abnormal enucleator preserving the eyes of his victims… Morgan had been furious about the suspect telling JJ he liked her eyes. (Lance totally understood.)

Besides that…. Foyet was still a ghost. And, while Hotch was forced down from team leader, with Morgan taking the lead, apparently their ‘groove’ was not impeded at all. Reid continued his tradition of calling Sweets every Sunday with some deep debate-sparking philosophical question, while Rossi insisted on walking him through making a homemade Italian meal every Saturday, even if it was normally only by phone. Morgan pestered him about dating or at _least_ going out, and Prentiss tag-teamed with JJ and Garcia to hound him about self-care (it was really very annoying; he did _not_ find it endearing at all). And, since their last field case, everyone who called him seemed to make sure they complained at least once about paperwork. Except Hotch and Reid, of course. Although… Hotch had started to confide in him about his nightmares and fears about Foyet. And, _man_ , did make Sweets feel special…. It was wonderful to be trusted that much by someone who did _not_ talk about his feelings, like, ever.

It was all absolutely wonderful… and utterly routine. Refreshingly so.

It was Friday night and Sweets was curled up in front of the TV, equipped with hot chocolate and a well-loved piece of fiction, resting after a long week of work. It was rapidly approaching Christmas and, despite not having any plans, he couldn’t be happier. Through his curtains, Sweets could see the bright seasonal lights decorating the building across the street, and earlier in the day he had passed a community choir in the park serenading passing businessmen with holiday hymns. Sweets was really feeling the holiday spirit this year.

As though the universe had heard his thoughts, the TV promptly cut to a bright, energetic, seasonal ad. Lance looked up from his book with a light chuckle. Life was so strange sometimes. _I bet Garcia or Morgan would get a kick out of that._

It was, evidently, the day for coincidences, because just then his phone began vibrating desperately, attempting to jump off the side of the coffee table, and, guess what? When he snagged it and checked the caller ID…

“Hi, Morgan,” he called cheerfully into the phone, “Can you profile me from 50 miles away?”

“Hello to you too, Sweets,” the other profiler chuckled, “What did I do this time?”

Sweets grinned, “Oh, I was just thinking that you or Garcia would find it humorous that a Christmas commercial came on when I was thinking about how festive everything is now.”

Morgan’s warm laughter echoed across the line, “Talk about coincidences, Junior.”

“Yeah,” he gave a light snort, “That’s for sure. How’ve these past few days been?”

“Incredibly slow and insanely busy, if you know what I mean.” At Lance’s chuckle, he continued on, “Now, I don’t want to tempt fate, not so close to Christmas, but I’d really appreciate getting invited out somewhere.”

“Paperwork getting to you?” Sweets laughed.

“Hell, yes,” Morgan shot back vehemently, “I don’t know _how_ Hotch did this.”

“Well,” he put on an air of false seriousness, “I imagine he did it the same way you are—”

“Oh, haha, wise ass,” the current team leader sassed back.

Once Sweets managed to stop snickering, he cleared his throat a little pointedly. “So,” he started, “Was there a particular reason for your call?”

“What,” came the feigned offended response, “I can’t check up on a friend?”

“Well, considering the fact that you did just that three days ago….”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let me forget you’re a profiler, why don’t you.”

“I’m happy to talk to you again, Morgan, you know that. But there’s a reason you called.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “Listen, Genius Junior, I found out today that Hotch doesn’t have any plans for Christmas. It’s not really a surprise, not with… well, Foyet, and the fact he hasn’t been close to his brother in a while…”

“Yeah,” Sweets huffed a sigh of his own.

“But, well, for some reason it caught me off guard,” Morgan paused for a moment, “I’d drag him off somewhere, but I’m going home to Chicago. I—I just want to make sure he’d not alone, you know?”

“I’m right there with you,” he reassured his ex-teammate. “What about the others?”

“Knowing them, they’re scheming up something for the both of you, but,” the older profile chuckled again, “I thought I’d cover my bases, and maybe give you a heads up.”

Sweets laughed and shook his head, “No doubt they’d try and surprise us or something. I’ll just beat them at their own game and invite them myself.”

Morgan laughed again, “How are you going to fit everyone in your tiny apartment?”

“It’s not _that_ small!” he protested.

“No, it’s _tiny_ ,” the other agent corrected, “You’ll probably end up violating some fire safety code.”

“We’ll manage somehow.”

Morgan gave a wistful sigh, “Man, I’d pay to see it.”

“I’ll send you pictures,” Sweets promised through yet another laugh.

“You better, Junior.”

A few minutes later, Lance was sitting on his couch, hot chocolate cooling on the coffee table and book forgotten in the mass of blankets, smiling at his phone. Hotch had been pleased with the invitation, as had Spencer. Emily had made noises about him ruining a wonderful surprise and it being all Morgan’s fault, but had agreed readily enough. Garcia, however, had been absolutely ecstatic, and Rossi had extracted a promise that he’d be allowed free reign over Lance’s kitchen. All that was left was to check to see what JJ, Will, and Henry had planned.

Christmas this year was shaping up to be quite eventful.

Lance grinned wider. It would be absolutely wonderful.

* * *

Sweets was pleasantly sated; his stomach was full to the brim with homemade Italian heaven, with a light dusting of vibrantly colored pastries (courtesy of Garcia). He had been forcibly ejected from the kitchen and was now settled on his couch, listening to Reid lecture Prentiss on quantum mechanics as they dealt with the aftermath of Dave’s cooking hurricane. Dave himself was perched in an armchair with a view of the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand, smiling and enjoying the show. One chair over, Hotch mirrored the other veteran profile, smiling faintly as he watched Prentiss manage to finally interrupt Reid when he took a breath.

“Reid!” she exclaimed, “Slow down. You lost me three minutes ago.”

There was a large clang that sounded like a pot being dropped in the sink, followed by the genius letting out a big huff, “You understand atoms, right?”

“Yeah,” the diplomat’s daughter ventured hesitantly.

“And you know about subatomic particles? Protons, electrons, and neutrons?”

“Yeah,” she sounded a little more certain.

“Well,” the younger profile took a large breath, “Quantum entanglement is based on a few concepts. For starters, there’s the Pauli Exclusion Principle. You see, electrons in the same system can’t be in the same state…”

Lance lost track of his friend’s explanation as Garcia flopped down next to him. (Based on Rossi’s amused smile, Emily was completely lost again).

“Well,” she declared cheerfully, “JJ texted; Henry just went to bed. He was absolutely _thrilled_ with his presents.”

“That’s great,” Sweets smiled.

“I’m glad they were able to have lunch with us,” Rossi commented.

Garcia smirked at him, “You’re just glad you got to feed them.”

Rossi simply gave her an innocent look.

“This has been nice,” Hotch smiled, meeting Sweets’ eyes, “Thank you for inviting us, Lance.”

Feeling slightly self-conscious, he gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, “That’s pretty much all I did. You’ve all barely even let me set foot inside my own kitchen. And, I mean, I live the farthest away, so it would’ve made more sense if I’d—”

“Oh, shush,” Garcia thwacked him on the arm, “Let us enjoy our mini-vacation in peace, you buzz-kill.”

They all chuckled at that.

“Anything interesting happen in the office this week?” Rossi enquired after a moment.

“You know I can’t talk about it,” Sweets objected, “Pa—”

“Patient-doctor confidentiality, we know,” Garcia finished, “But there’d the non-confidential stuff too…”

“Garcia’s right,” Rossi had a mischievous glimmer in his eye, “For example, is that one Agent still poking fun at your age?”

“Oh!” Garcia jumped back in, “Or is Dr. Brennan still being a skeptic?”

Sweets rolled his eyes at them, “Yes, and yes. I’m not about to change them anytime soon.”

“What about the serial killer case?” Hotch cut in.

Sweets shrugged, “There hasn’t been any activity. No new victims or evidence.”

Rossi sighed, “The long cases are always the hardest, aren’t they?”

They all murmured their agreement. After a moment, conversation picked back up, brushing over a selection of topics—from a new recipe Rossi was looking forward to trying (Garcia volunteered to be his guinea pig), to Morgan handling his role as team leader with grace, to news of Will getting promoted—before Garcia started poking Sweets about Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan again.

“Come on, Lancelot,” she goaded, “You always say you’re fascinated by them but you never say _why_.”

“Actually,” Hotch objected, still smiling, “He has.”

Rossi nodded, faux seriously, “Personalities that should be completely incompatible working perfectly, if I recall.”

“But he never says _why_ he thinks that,” she complained, “Not beyond their general personalities. I want _examples_.”

“I’m just not comfortable dancing around that line,” Sweets chuckled, “I’m not going to violate their privacy.”

She huffed a sigh, “Yeah, you’re right. Like usual.”

“Although…” Sweets started, instantly garnering his bubbly friend’s full attention, “I did have the pleasure of convincing Dr. Brennan that child-like wonder and innocence is a good thing, especially around Christmas time.”

Garcia let out an overdramatized gasp, “ _Really_?”

“Really,” he laughed.

“I’d say you have that down to a science, Garcia,” Rossi offered.

“You do certainly brighten our days,” Hotch added, his faint smile still firmly in place.

Reid appeared beside the couch, looking a bit like a drowned rat, “Are we talking about Garcia?”

Prentiss joined the team’s genius, smiling down at the now bright red tech analyst, “You are very colorful, Garcia.”

Reid suddenly grinned, “Like Christmas!”

Laughter echoed around the room, and conversation quickly drifted away once again, but Sweets couldn’t help examining his little family and his (according to Morgan) tiny apartment. The pleasant abode was currently decorated from floor to ceiling in green and red. In the corner, a small tree was covered in a rainbow of ornaments and lights. The small gathering fit in splendidly with the decorations, with their gaudy sweaters or colorful shirts, and everyone’s face was flushed with laughter and wine. It was pleasantly warm, and still smelled of pasta. The scent would likely last all week, reminding him of the pleasant day.

 _Yes_ , he thought. _This Christmas is quite colorful indeed_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of a two part social fluff plot. Sweets hangs with Reid and a (ahem) other friend in LA, and he decides to observe his two problem patients in a work-free environment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is a long chapter AND only part one of the plot arc. Not sure why this grew so large, but it turned out well, so I hope you enjoy. Part two will be up soon.  
> This chapter is set just after The Performer and at the beginning of Outfoxed in Criminal Minds (and yes, I shifted the two cases much closer together than is implied in the series). The lecture Sweets and Reid attend is in Outfoxed.  
> This chapter is also just before The Man in the Mud.  
> The next chapter will be during both Outfoxed and The Man in the Mud.  
> There is no dialogue from either show in this chapter.

The months following Christmas were quiet, much like the month leading up to the holiday. Sweets heard little about cases, from either team, however it was in no way truly _calm_ … after all, Hotch was still stressing over the Reaper, along with the rest of the BAU, and the Jeffersonian team was still searching fruitlessly for Gormogon.  Despite that, very few people seemed to be murdered in that first month, and it was nice to see both teams taking a breather. Which, Sweets reflected, was relative. The Jeffersonian had been doubling down on cold cases and unidentified remains, and the BAU had been flying hither and yon giving recruitment talks, filling their days pouring over their own collection of cold cases, and consulting with various other FBI teams.

So, it was busy, but _quiet_.

That hadn’t lasted long, at least not for the BAU, as they were called out to Los Angeles in early February. Sweets found out through his usual means; one of the team members called to let him know they’d be out of town and where they were going in case he needed them. He found out about the end of the case in the same manner… however, it was a little more surprising.

It was early in the afternoon the very next day. Sweets was settled behind his desk, reviewing his notes on a certain an agent and consultant, who were due in a few minutes, when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, frowned, and answered, “Reid? What’s up?”

“Hey, Lance,” the other doctor greeted happily, “Nothing much. We wrapped up the case.”

“Already?” Sweets sat back, surprised.

“Yeah,” Reid gave a light huff, “It was a bit of luck… and bad luck. See, we thought the killer was a male vampirist, potentially someone with Renfield’s syndrome. It frequently comes with schizophrenia, so we thought they would be simple to spot, but the killer was actually a friend of one of the victims. She was manipulated by a rock star’s assistant.”

Sweets frowned in slight confusion, “Where was the bad luck in this?”

“Well,” he sounded hesitant, “JJ went to go talk with the victim’s friend before we knew that the killer was female, and… the manager who was manipulating her hit JJ with a shovel.”

“What?!” his eyes went wide.

“I should have gone with her…” the profiler sounded guilty.

Sweets knew about the history with the two agents and how splitting up… never seemed to turn out well with them, but this was a little far-fetched. “Spencer,” he sighed, “There’s no way you could have known.”

“I know,” the genius sighed as well, “Everyone has already made sure I know that.”

“Is she ok?” Lance ventured.

“Yeah; she’s cleared to fly and everything.”

“Good,” he smiled in relief. After a moment of comfortable silence, Lance decided to cut to the chase. He knew Spencer well enough by now to know that he had something else on his mind. “What else is up?”

“Um, well… I’m not flying back with the team. I got invited to dinner by a friend, and I saw that Dr. James Fallon of the University of California, Irvine School of Medicine, is doing a talk tomorrow about his latest research. In fact,” he paused to clear his throat, “I was wondering if you were interested in going with me.”

Sweets blinked in surprise, “In California? Reid…” Did the profiler expect him to fly out there? While Dr. Fallon was one of the best neuroscientists in the field and the two friends had talked several times about attending one of his lectures together, it was in California. _Tomorrow._

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, so you don’t have work,” Reid persisted, “I mean, you’ll have to reschedule with Rossi, but he won’t mind, and I’ll pay for your tickets, and—”

“Whoa there, Spence,” Sweets jumped in, “You can slow down; I get the idea.” He shook his head at himself. There was no way he could _actually_ resist the spur of the moment suggestion; despite the insanity of it, domestic flights weren’t that expensive and he did _want_ to go. It sounded fun. “I’ll look into getting tickets after my next appointment.”

After a beat, the genius choked out, “Really?” sounding thoroughly surprised.

Sweets smiled fondly, “Why not? I haven’t gotten to see you for a few weeks now, and we _have_ always talked about it…”

“Awesome!” the other young man nearly cheered, “I’ll pay you back.”

Sweets twisted lips down in an attempt at a serious expression, despite the fact the other profiler couldn’t see him, “We’ll see.”

At that moment, his door chose to open with a light click, and Agent Booth’s voice drifted in (“Oh, come _on_ , Bones!”) followed swiftly by the man himself and, a moment later, his partner.

“Sweets—” Reid protested on the other end of the phone.

“I’ve got to go, Spencer,” he interrupted his friend, eyes on his patients, “I’ll call you once I’ve bought tickets.”

While he spoke, the partner pair settled onto the couch, observing him on the phone with curiosity.

“Fine,” the genius allowed, trying to sound grumpy despite the clear smile in his voice, “Bye, Lance.”

“Bye,” he returned with a brief smile. He then swiftly flipped his phone closed, scooped up his file, and stood up to move around his desk in one smooth motion. He gave the pair waiting for him a sheepish smile, “Sorry about that.”

“Are you going to a game?” Booth asked, leaning forward slightly.

Sweets, however, frowned in confusion, “A game?”

“Yeah! A sports game,” he gestured emphatically towards the therapist, “You said you were buying tickets.” Beside him, Dr. Brennan rolled her eyes.

“Oh, no,” Sweets corrected, settling into his chair, “I’m buying plane tickets.”

While Agent Booth seemed a little put off, it was Dr. Brennan’s turn to perk up, “Where are you going?”

“California,” he smiled at her, “The UC Irvine School of Medicine, to be specific. A friend and I are going to attend a lecture.”

“Really?” the anthropologist smiled back, “By whom?”

“Dr. James Fallon. He’s a neuroscientist who studies—”

“Psychiatry,” she finished with clear disappointment, “I’ve heard of him.”

Internally, Sweets rolled his eyes at the FBI consultant. She still refused to accept the validity of his field. Externally, he simply kept smiling and decided to elaborate slightly, “He has made several interesting discoveries in regards to imaging various mental disorders.”

Brennan nearly scowled and opened her mouth to, no doubt, begin refuting the other doctor’s discoveries, but Booth clearly saw the signs and jumped in to avoid a repetition of the old argument. “You’re flying all the way to California just to attend a lecture?” he asked incredulously.

Sweets shrugged in reply, “It’s all we have planned at the moment, but my friend is a Caltech graduate, so I’m sure he’ll insist on showing me around LA. _However_ ,” he continued swiftly before they could stay off track, “Let’s get started with the session.”

Was it wrong that he took a strange form of satisfaction from Booth’s groan and Brennan’s disgusted huff? _I mean_ , he mused, _they do make my job_ very _difficult._

* * *

Bright and early the following morning, Sweets found himself dragging his sorry ass off the plane, glaring at the pink-tinged sky visible outside the LA-X window. In his professional opinion, it was _way_ too early. It was the _weekend_ ; normally he was able to spend this time lazing in bed reading a good book, but instead he had gotten up before the break of dawn to get a ride to the airport and fly across the country with the sun chasing him all the way. He still felt half asleep, plodding along towards the exit with his small carryon.

That all changed, however, as he passed the “NO RE-ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT” signs and looked up to catch sight of his friend clutching his messenger bag and waving enthusiastically. He couldn’t help grinning and waving back.

Yes, it was early… but it was _so_ worth it.

“Spencer,” he greeted warmly, giving the older genius his customary shoulder punch in greeting. (Morgan had _definitely_ rubbed off on Sweets…a fact that the occasionally mischievous agent was inordinately proud of.)

As tradition dictated, Reid gave him his best fake annoyed look, wrinkling his nose, before swiftly breaking out into an even larger grin. “Hi, Lance,” he returned, “Ready to see Los Angeles?”

Sweets grinned impossibly wider, “As ready as ever. I hope you’ve got a plan for what you’re going to cram in before Dr. Fallon’s lecture.”

Reid’s eyes downright _sparkled_. “Oh, I have a few ideas. Come on,” he started moving away, motioning Lance to follow, “First, though… The friend I visited last night offered to ferry us around on the condition she get to buy us breakfast.”

“That seems a little backwards,” he commented, slightly confused, as he followed Reid.

He chuckled, ears distinctly turning red, “Well, I guess it’s logical to _her_ ,” he glanced over at his friend, “She’s, uh, rich.”

Sweets felt his eyes widen with realization. During a stalker case they worked while Lance was still on the team, Morgan had off handedly mentioned a similar case they had handled in LA a few years before he or Prentiss had joined. A case where Spencer had grown quite close to the victim while protecting her.

He turned and gave the genius a teasing grin, “This friend wouldn’t happen to be Lila Archer, would she?”

Spencer’s steps faltered for a moment, “How did you… Derek told you, didn’t he?”

“Right in one,” he chuckled, “Although, to be honest, it was relevant to the case we were working at the time.”

“The Michael Hicks case,” he guessed again, heaving a long-suffering sigh.

“Yep,” Sweets grinned sideways at him, “You’re pretty good at this guessing thing.”

“You’re not exactly making it hard,” Reid snarked back, pushing through the glass door, letting a slight breeze roll in. Sweets shook his head fondly and followed him into the Californian dawn and over to a nondescript black SUV with tinted back windows. Reid swiftly ushered him into the front seat, greeting the driver, before sliding himself into the back with the movie star herself. Only after both doors were shut did he greet Lila as well, and introduce her to Sweets.

Sweets smiled at her, twisting around in his seat, and took her proffered hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Archer.”

She shook her head and chuckled. “Please, Dr. Sweets,” she urged, “Call me Lila. Any friend of Spencer is a friend of mine.”

“Then you should call me Lance,” he returned warmly. “Spencer tells me you’re set on feeding us.”

Lila glanced at the man in question, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “If Spencer had his way, you’d have seen half the city before he even thought to find something other than coffee.”

Sweets outright laughed at that. _Yeah…_ he mused, grinning at the genius’ affronted look, _Spencer and his coffee… That sounds about right._

“Besides,” Lila barreled on, grin still firmly in place, “It’s my day off and I know the best breakfast place in town.”

* * *

Sweets had been 100% converted to a Lila Archer fan. She was _amazing_. First she took them to a wonderful family owned breakfast and lunch place just a few miles out of LA proper, near the beach. It was obviously an older building and a little run-down, but it was well maintained and had a wonderful homey feel to it. Similarly, the food had obviously been made with love and was the best thing the profiler had eaten in a long time. Spencer agreed wholeheartedly with the assessment, explaining that Lila had shown him the place nearly three years ago and that he came whenever he could.

After that, Lila had _insisted_ that they needed to see Hollywood (“It’s the city of _stars_ , Spencer! You can’t just take Lance to the _colleges_.”) She had dragged them to her current set and shown them the hustle and bustle of life behind the camera before shooing them off to see Hollywood Boulevard—but not before extracting a promise from Spencer that they would _actually_ go and a promise from both of them that they’d have lunch with her.

Let it be said that Lila had a stubborn streak a mile wide and a glare to be reckoned with. Even though she wasn’t joining them—due to the inevitable swarm that followed her every move—she was _still_ able to dictate their agenda. It was rather incredible.

Spencer, for his part, had not seemed overtly upset at having his plans subverted and entertained himself and Lance with the history behind the iconic locations along the street. At one point, in front of the Chinese Theatre, he collected quite a crowd of tourists as he expounded on the many conflicting stories of how the tradition of imprinting and signing concrete by celebrities had started. The young genius had been quite baffled by the attention, and Sweets laughed for several minutes once they had moved on down the street—especially when he noticed a few of the tourists were still following them, as though hoping for another historical analysis.

“But I don’t know _that_ much,” the genius had complained, “It’s not like I’m an expert; I only read a few books after Lila insisted I go here the first time.”

“You may not be an expert, Spence,” Sweets had shot back, leaning against a wall, subtly gasping for breath, “but the average person _can’t_ recite the book _written_ by an expert they only read once.” The look on Reid’s face—full of acquiescence, but frustrated and uncomfortable all the same— had merely set him off again, clutching at his stomach as he laughed himself silly. He didn’t even mind the incredulous stares from the swirling sea of passing tourists. It was just too funny.

After he had recovered somewhat, they wrapped up their tour and met Lila’s driver, a pleasant man named George, who struck up a conversation about astrophysics—of all things—as he drove them to the restaurant of Lila’s choice for an early lunch. Apparently his son was planning to go into the field, but was incapable of explaining anything, so he had taken to quizzing Spencer whenever he came to visit.

Honestly, Lance found this just as amusing.

Lunch found the trio in a private room in the back of Lila’s favorite lunch spot—when she didn’t have to eat on set. It was far fancier than the breakfast place, and smack-dab in paparazzi central, but served high quality American fair and catered to tourists and celebrities alike.

Lila had been delighted to hear that they had followed through with their promise and had quizzed them—though mostly Lance—on their impressions. The therapist was relieved, however, when the actress decided she was satisfied with their stories (and finished laughing at Spencer becoming an impromptu tour guide) and changed the subject.

“Lance!” she turned from a bright red Spencer to look at the other profiler, “You work at the FBI too, right? With the BAU?”

“Ah, yes,” Lance blinked a few times before catching up to the shift in conversation, “And no. I used to… however, I’ve moved away from field work recently. I’m currently a physiatrist and therapist for the DC office.”

“Really?” she leaned forward in interest, “How come?”

There was a beat of frozen silence. Sweets cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced at Reid before turning his attention to pushing a tomato around his plate. Thankfully Reid got the message loud and clear and murmured quietly, “We have a very dangerous job.”

Sweets didn’t look up, but he heard realization dawn on the young star with a sharp intake of breath. “Oh,” she breathed quietly, “I’m sorry.” After a short pause, Sweets was starting to wonder if the conversation was going to fall flat completely, but Lila, being the eternally determined woman she seemed to be, recovered quickly. “So, helping people with personal problems… I imagine that’s quite different from chasing serial killers.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling slightly in both amusement and relief, “It is. I do still consult on homicide cases from time to time, though.”

“A grand total of two,” Spencer grumbled.

Lance huffed and glared at his friend, “Hey, it counts!”

Spencer’s lips twitched slightly, but he retained a glum tone as he argued, “They were given to you by two of your patients.”

“If you can even count them as patients,” he shot back, “They certainly don’t act like it.”

“What’s this I hear?” Lila’s eyes were sparkling, “You have problem patients?”

Lance sighed. “They’re an agent-consultant team,” he explained, “both brilliant in their own ways, with one logical to the extreme, the other emotional and instinctual. They’re constantly arguing, but somehow always work well together.”

“They’re in therapy because he arrested her father,” Spencer added helpfully.

Sweets turned to the genius in shock, “How did you…?” Reid gave him a sheepish look. “Garcia hacked into my files, didn’t she?” Reid nodded almost imperceptibly, and Sweets sighed, “I hope she knows that’s _very_ illegal.”

“She only read the information you received with the initial request, before the full file came in.”

“Still illegal.”

“But better,” he pointed out.

Sweets rolled his eyes, “I will believe that Garcia didn’t read information she had access to when a pig flies up to meet the metaphorical jumping cow.”

Across the table Lila burst out laughing. Both geniuses turned to look at her in shock for a moment before Sweets turned to Spencer, a smile and remark ready, only to find the profiler observing the star with a fond expression.

Well, that answered that question.

“I think I’d really like to meet Ms. Garcia sometime,” Lila smiled, “The more I hear about her the more I like her.”

“I’m pretty sure she’d like you too,” Lance commented, before giving Spencer a meaningful look (now that he wasn’t focused on Lila).

The genius flushed and glared as Sweets, but agreed, “Yeah. I’m actually a little afraid of what the two of you could accomplish together.”

Lila seemed pleased, but turned back to Sweets, “Back to your problem patients… what makes them difficult?”

He frowned at her and considered his options briefly. After a moment, however, he decided that the problem he was having didn’t compromise their privacy. “They don’t believe I can actually help them, and don’t, in fact, believe they have a problem. They frequently refuse to participate in activities and I… I’ve never heard them talk about themselves.”

“Isn’t that,” it was Lila’s turn to frown, “the whole point of therapy?”

“No, I mean, they talk about feelings sometimes, or a piece of their lives, but it’s always… _connected_ to their only point of commonality—”

“Work,” Spencer interjected helpfully. “Based on what I know about Dr. Brennan, it doesn’t surprise me.”

“You saw her once,” Sweets complained, “at a _lecture_.”

“Take them somewhere else,” Lila threw in from left field, effectively cutting off any friendly bickering. After both doctors had turned to look at her in surprise, she shrugged self-consciously, “I mean, if all they talk about it work, put them somewhere where they _can’t_.”

“Are you sure you’re a movie star?” Sweets half-joked, “You wouldn’t make a bad therapist.”

He was rewarded with the memorable experience of causing a popular celebrity to blush crimson. A meaningful look later, and his friend followed suit.

Yes. He was definitely a Lila Archer fan.

* * *

They parted ways with Lila in the restaurant, promising to visit again—and in Spencer’s case, call. Sweets was practically giddy with the discovery of the ongoing non-relationship his friend had with the star and was thoroughly disappointed that he’d be unable to act like an excited kid about it with Garcia and/or Morgan. But… if Spencer hadn’t already shared, it wasn’t his place.

George had happily ferried them to the Irvine School of Medicine and promised he’d be back to pick them up and take them to their hotel. Knowing it was under Lila’s orders—er… request—they didn’t bother arguing. The lecture itself was fascinating, covering Dr. Fallon’s recent discoveries in the neurology of psychopaths. Following the lecture, the pair hung around for nearly an hour, listening to students and experts alike quiz him on his research. They even contributed a few questions of their own.

From there, they wandered campus for a few hours before calling George and finally returning to the comfort of Spencer’s hotel room. It had been a long day, but Sweets was feeling satisfied rather than exhausted. He and Spencer curled up on their respective beds—Sweets with work and Spencer with a book.

The room itself was pleasantly warm from solar gain, as was the décor—with an earthy red wall paper and beds with soft gold comforters. They pulled the drapes, allowing only the filtered sunlight that slid through the curtain and the simple incandescent lamps to light their work. These various sources of warmth, physical and metaphorical, seemed to settle into Sweets’ very being and he found himself smiling for no reason as he typed up tedious physiological reviews and evaluations. It was this fulfilled sort of mood that allowed him to knock off all of the work he had brought with him, _and_ do some serious brainstorming about a few problems.

Spencer on the other hand was conked out on his bed, fast asleep with his book lying forgotten on his chest. Based on the case, followed by a night with Lila and an early morning and busy day with him, Sweets was _not_ surprised,

Smiling absently once again, he flicked through his notes before settling on his most recent session with Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth. That reminded him… He reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number.

A moment later the ringing stopped and a slightly sleepy voice filtered through, “You’ve reached the home office of awesomeness, how can I help you?”

“Pen, it’s,” Sweets paused to glance at the clock seeing that it was seven, “only, like, four in DC. What have you been doing?”

“Lance!” she perked up a bit, “I hope California has been nice.”

“It’s great. Still, though, why are you so tired?”

“Oh, I was just up late last night, wrapping up a non-BAU project,” she sighed. “But, anyway, what’s up?”

Lance smiled and told her about his day, minus Lila. She laughed herself silly, hearing about Spencer the Tour Guide. But, finally, he reached the reason he had called, “Listen, Garcia, you can’t hack my files.”

“I didn’t read your files!” she objected vehemently, before tacking on more sheepishly, “I just read the ‘reason for referral’ for the wonder duo.”

“That’s still bad, Pen…” Sweets sighed.

“Look, I’m sorry. I won’t touch it anymore. Pinky swear,” she pleaded. Sweets just smiled to himself and stayed silent. “Oh, ok, fine!” she huffed at him after a long moment. “It’s just,” she whined, “I’m _curious_ about them.”

Sweets smiled to himself at her tone. “What if you could help me with them?”

“What?” she was, for once, lost for words.

“I’ve decided I need to observe them in an environment where work is a taboo subject, but I need help to do that. If I were to try and do something with them where it’s just me…”

“Say no more, Sir Sweetness, the Queen is here to help!” she declared happily, “What are we doing together?”

“I’m not sure yet—I think I need to talk to them in their next session to get a feel for what would be the best choice— but I imagine it will be an engaging activity you do as a group.”

“Like painting?” Garcia asked hopefully.

He chuckled at her, “Maybe.”

She squealed quietly on the other end of the line, “Wonderful!”

“Can I call you once I have a better idea of when and what?”

“You better, Lancelot!”

As Sweets bid her farewell and eased himself out of bed with the intention of waking Spencer for dinner, he couldn’t help yet another smile. He had wonderful friends… _and_ he might, just might, manage to figure out two of his most difficult patients. Thanks to Lila Archer. He grinned wider, shaking Spencer gently by the shoulder.

This had been one _fantastic_ Saturday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo.... Lila.  
> I'm rather fond of her- Somebody's Watching was the second Criminal Minds episode I ever watched- but I understand some people don't. And Reid never mentioned her after that episode. But, shhhhhh.  
> So, anyway, if that's the case for you, sorry and tough luck. She's not going to be a main character, and she's not involved with Reid, but she and Reid are close friends. After all, they've stayed in touch despite her rising fame and his demanding schedule for _five years_....  
>  Part Two is coming soon. (I'm just editing it now. It should be up by tomorrow at the latest.)  
> Edit 5/23: I failed to account for social life x insane work load. I will get it up as soon as I can.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of social fluff plot. Pottery scene ahead!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY everyone. I mean, talk about an epic fail. "I'll have it up tomorrow," I said. "I just have editing left," I said.  
> Well, looky here! It's almost TWO weeks later! Ugh, I suck.  
> My life was insane. And then I got sick too. Soooo.... Oops.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy.  
> This is during and after Outfoxed and during Man in the Mud. There is some dialogue (modified of course) from Man in the Mud in this chapter.

The next day, Spencer and Lance toured various campuses in the LA area, including Caltech, and attended a few lectures in the spur of the moment. That afternoon they caught a flight from LA-X back to DC and parted ways. Sweets’ day didn’t end there, however; he met Rossi at his rather large house and proceeded to receive his customary weekend Italian cuisine lesson a day late, before catching a cab back to his apartment building. Tired, satisfied, and pleasantly full, he crashed and slept soundly.

The following morning, he settled into his office, filed the work he had completed over the weekend, and rolled with the familiar pattern of his day. The sun rose to its zenith above the building as he greeted patients and performed a few routine evaluations. Finally, just before lunch, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth arrived for their session. They, of course, immediately jumped into their current case, discussing the unpleasant discovery of a decomposing body by a couple out on a romantic outing.

“What a shock for that couple, huh?” Booth commented, “I mean they slide naked into the hot mud bath and the skeleton pokes her in the… you know—”

“Anus,” Brennan finished.

“Bones!” he turned to give his partner a reproachful look.

“What? It’s a clinical term for that part of the body, Booth,” she frowned back at him.

Internally, Sweets shook his head at the insistent bickering. Sometimes the pair behaved like children. Or maybe Reid and Morgan when they were being particularly _special_. “Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth,” he cut in. They turned to look at him. “Would it be fair to say you use work to avoid confronting your personal issues?”

“What?” Booth huffed, “Because I don’t what to talk about the…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely.

“The anus,” Brennan supplied again.

Booth frowned at her again, “You really like that word, don’t you.”

Sweets swiftly cut in before thing could be pulled father off course, “Do you ever discuss something that isn’t attached to work?”

“Well,” the agent protested, “It’s better than talking about the…” he trailed off again.

“The anus?” Sweets filled in this time.

“What is it with you two?” he asked in exasperation

“Well, Sweets could be right; we talk a lot about work,” Brennan put in. For a moment, Sweets was mildly shocked that the resistant scientist was agreeing with him. It was practically too good to be true.

The discussion continued, of course, with them protesting that they talk about unrelated people and do unrelated things, but Sweets was able to easily point out that they were all connected in some way to their jobs and that they rarely talk about their personal lives and issues. He finally leaned forward and got to the point, “I’d like to see you guys in a social situation. A situation where work is a taboo subject.”

“What, are you going to send us to a restaurant and watch us through a one-way mirror?” Booth snarked.

“No,” Sweets shook his head at the agent’s antics, “An evening out—the three of us and a friend of mine.”

“A friend?” Booth asked in surprise, pausing as he leant forward to grab the colorful squishy toy Sweets had taken to keeping on his coffee table. It was, of course, from Garcia’s special stash.

“Thank you,” Sweets said dryly, “For your vote of confidence in my social life, Agent Booth.” He frowned slightly at him, but sighed when he saw Brennan looked curious too. “She’s a technical analyst. However I’m going to refuse to let _anyone_ talk about their work.”

Booth turned to Brennan and decided sagely, “They need someone to buy them beer.”

“You want us to go on a double date?” Brennan asked, now quite indignant.

Sweets frowned at that. _Does she think I’m dating Garcia? Why would she think that?_ Before he could say anything on the matter, however, Booth jumped enthusiastically into the theory.

“Yeah, listen, why don’t you just go on the internet like all the rest of the kids?” he advised snidely, gesturing at him with the hand holding the colorful squishy ball.

Sweets slammed his metaphorical head into a wall.

 _Why_ was he working with these two? He knew he loved helping people as a therapist, but the forensic anthropologist-agent pair made him question his sanity for turning away from serial crime.

Psychopaths were so much simpler.

Forcing himself not to reply to the comment, he sighed, “Ok, how about this: if it goes well, I’ll withdraw my concerns. I’ll release you back into your environment.” He winced internally as soon as the words left his mouth. Agent Booth was going to—

“What are we? Brook trout?”

Yup. There it was.

Brennan, however, frowned in thought for a second, looking between the two of them, before smiling. “Fine,” she agreed suddenly, surprising both her partner and her therapist. Sweets couldn’t help smiling back; he was far more pleased than he’d admit that the scientist had conceded to his idea.

After a moment of silence, he turned to her partner—who was squeezing the poor ball he still held violently— and pulled the card he knew the agent would be unable to resist: “Agent Booth? Unless you think that’s too much to prove…”

Booth narrowed his eyes at him, and it was clear he _knew_ Sweets was pushing his buttons, but he gave a cocky smile and agreed, “Fine,” before turning to Brennan and adding, “I’ll show him I have nothing to prove. Bring it on, Sweets,” he challenged the psychologist, hurling the squishy toy at him. Sweets caught it with ease.

He really hoped this would be worth it.

* * *

“Dr. Sweets,” said therapist answered his phone absently, eyes still on the notes and forms spread across his desk.

“Hey there, Junior,” a warm voice came across the line.

“Morgan,” Sweets smiled, putting down his pen. “Let me guess, you have a case?”

The profiler chuckled, “You’ve still got it, Lance. And yes, we do. You’ll probably see it if you turn on the news; it’s a family annihilator. He’s killing the families of deployed soldiers.”

“God,” he breathed in horror.

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed somberly. “We’re headed to Hampton.” After a beat of silence he continued in a forcibly more upbeat tone, “Anyway, Garcia wanted to call you to let you know about the case, and that you might have to post pone your outing, but once I heard about it I decided to call you instead… mainly so I could tell you _not_ to go painting. From what I’ve heard—”

“Yeah, I know,” Sweets sighed, “Booth would not appreciate that. I’m just struggling with ideas.”

“You should try something like… ceramics,” he offered hesitantly, “It’s probably hands on enough for your agent and will satisfy Garcia”

The therapist blinked in surprise, “When have _you_ done ceramics?”

A moment passed and Morgan cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh,” he started, “I had a girlfriend in high school who was into pottery, and she drug me along several times.”

Sweets couldn’t help laughing at that.

“Hey,” Morgan huffed, voice full of mock-hurt.

“Thanks, Derek,” Sweets finally offered after he caught his breath, “That’s a great idea.”

“Glad to help,” the profiler returned warmly. A voice said something in the background and Sweets recognized it as Rossi. Morgan murmured something back. A second later, Morgan’s voice came through the phone again, “I’ve got to go, Junior.”

“Ok,” he agreed, “Good luck on the case.”

“Thanks, Lance,” he sighed in a way that clearly meant they needed it, “We’ll keep you posted.”

After he hung up, Sweets considered his phone. He should research pottery classes and then call up Dr. Brennan and schedule a time. Knowing his old team and how they worked, they’d likely be done with this case by Wednesday. Thursday night would probably be safe….

* * *

The pottery shop was a pleasant space—it was decorated in warm earthy tones with individual stations spread comfortably around the space so no one had to socialize with anyone beyond their own group. The teacher’s station was on a raised platform in the center, but the teacher herself only settled there occasionally, preferring instead to move between the groups to help anyone who was struggling. Several groups appeared to be regulars and were crafting incredibly complex pots or sculptures, while others appeared to be new and relatively clueless.

Sweet’s group was, of course, one of these groups. The four of them were having a varying amount of fun with the novel activity. It was new to all of them except Dr. Brennan, who was reminiscing on the last time she threw a pot. Booth was on the station directly across from her and was rolling his eyes a bit as he added clay to his slowly forming lump. The agent had been highly resistant to the idea of ceramics and had, upon arriving, refused to try the ‘spinning thing,’ proceeding to sculpt instead (to the delight of their teacher). Garcia, who was across from Sweets, had been extremely excited at no only meeting Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth but at learning pottery too. She was currently quizzing Brennan about Colombia as she determinedly shaped her clay into something resembling a pot. Sweets himself was observing the interactions with interest and his own attempt at pottery in dismay.

Garcia glanced over at him and immediately caught on. “ _Relax_ , Sir Sweetness,” she huffed with a roll of her eyes, “It looks _wonderful_.”

Booth gave an incredulous chuckle, clearly at the nickname—or at least that’s what Sweets hoped—and Brennan looked over before giving a slight frown. “It looks fine,” she agreed hesitantly, confusion marring her tone.

A beat after Brennan’s positive comment—when Sweets was busy being surprised and Garcia was busy beaming at the confused anthropologist—Booth took the opportunity to jump in from left field. “Are you _sure_ you aren’t dating?” he prodded with a cheeky smile.

Garcia immediately transitioned her attention to the other half of the investigative team. “What, me and Lancelot?” she asked incredulously. “Like I would ever cheat on my brilliant sugar plum.” With that she huffed and turned back to her pot.

Lance took pity on Booth and turned to explain, “Pen is dating a co-worker.”

Garcia let out a satisfied hum, “We’re an unstoppable hacker duo.” A beat later she looked up at Sweets with wide eyes, and pointed accusingly at him, “But we aren’t allowed to talk about work! Shame on you, Junior.”

“Yeah, ok,” he chuckled, “That one’s on me.”

“So,” Booth ventured, “Sweets really has _no one_?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no,” Garcia disagreed, “He has us—all of his friends from his _old_ job—and honestly, we’re basically family.”

“That’s an interesting perspective,” Brennan mused, “There has to be an extraordinary level of trust for strangers to become that close. I mean, from an anthropological stand point—”

“Spencer would like you,” Garcia interrupted, a thoughtful expression on her face, “The two of you could probably drone on and on about culture and facts and studies…”

Brennan blinked in surprise, “Is he a scientist?”

“He has doctorates in engineering, chemistry, and mathematics and bachelors in psychology and sociology,” Lance supplied, a proud note in his voice.

“How old is he?” Booth asked, pausing his sculpting to stare.

“Twenty-nine,” Sweets smiled at the dumbfounded agent.

“ _But_ ,” Garcia jumped in, “That’s misleading because our bonafide genius had all of those degrees seven years ago.” She smirked at Sweets, “See, that’s why Lance is our _junior_ genius.”

Sweets shook his head—both in exasperation and fondness, “I can’t believe you and Morgan still call me that.”

“Oh, _Junior_ —it’s a term of _endearment_. My chocolate thunder was a genius in his own right when he coined that beautiful nickname.”

Booth gave the tech genius a mischievous smile, “I think I agree with Penelope on this one, _Junior_.”

“Agent Booth, please,” Sweets sighed. While the therapist was pleased with the Agents’ shift in attitude, he really did _not_ want his patient to call him _Junior_.

Dr. Brennan was apparently thinking along the same lines as she frowned at her partner, “Booth, I believe you told me once that nicknames are meaningful only from a small subset of individuals and condescending from anyone else— much like how I tolerate your nickname for me but refuse to let anyone else call me ‘Bones’.”

Booth turned to blink in surprise at the anthropologist, but any comment he could have made was cut off by Garcia. The technical analyst was grinning from ear to ear. “That is so sweet!” she gushed, instantly making both partners uncomfortable, “I do the same thing with Morgan, my chocolate thunder. He calls me baby girl. Of course my sugar plum, Kevin, was put off at first and the department _insists_ on putting us through endless harassment classes, but our nicknames just _stuck_.”

“Do you have nicknames like that for _everyone_ you know?” Brennan interrupted, a note of horror in her voice.

“Yes,” Sweets put in dryly, answering for his friend, “She does. Usually quite a few for each person, too.”

Garcia simply smiled at that. She was inordinately proud of all her nicknames—given and received.

A moment of silence passed where everyone returned to their creations and Sweets observed them with interest. It only lasted for a minute, however, as Booth looked up and glanced at Sweets before smiling slightly.

“Uh, Sweets,” he offered, “Your, uh, thing there is drooping.”

Sweets glanced down to find his pot, which he had been rather proud of, tipping slightly to the side as it spun around and around. “Oh, come on,” he huffed in exasperation. Of _course_ his first attempt at pottery would _literally_ fall over on him.

Booth, however had no such concerns, grinning happily and brandishing his finished clay figure, “Look at my horse!” It was… a stunningly realistic creation.

“Wow!” Garcia exclaimed in surprise and awe.

Sweets couldn’t help agreeing, “That’s amazing, Agent Booth.” For someone utterly opposed to the idea of ‘making’ anything, he was obviously not only enjoying himself, but possessed a natural talent.

“Very impressive,” Brennan eyed her partner’s creation with clear incredulity. Sweets would not be surprised to discover she had reached the same conclusion as he had, albeit without any ‘useless’ psychology.

“Yes it is,” Booth agreed triumphantly, picking a piece of stray clay off of his creation and tossing it at the anthropologist. Brennan flinched and gasped in surprise, before ignoring Booth’s hurried apology and swiftly grabbing some clay and retaliating. In a matter of seconds, Brennan’s pot was ruined and the two had devolved into chuckling messes, tossing clay back and forth like toddlers.

“Hey, Lance,” Garcia called, redirecting his attention from smiling at the pair to look at his friend… who was wielding a handful of clay.

“Pen!” he managed to gasp in surprise a split second before he was covered in a light layer of wet soppy clay. The perpetrator started cackling evilly, and that _could not stand_ , so Sweets shrugged his mental shoulders and hurled a piece at her in revenge.

A few minutes later, the four were gasping for breath as they laughed on the sidewalk outside the pottery shop, having been succinctly kicked to the curb. Sweets managed to right himself after a few moments, and found Booth leaning against the wall chuckling at Brennan who was smiling in a slightly confused manner and holding a helplessly cackling Penelope upright. It was a rather surprising sight. Rather like the night itself. It hadn’t been what Sweets had intended, with this little social outing, but it was fulfilling all the same.

Sweets found he couldn’t regret it, even if it meant he had to follow through with his promise to cut the interesting pair free from therapy. They deserved it, even if he still didn’t understand how they worked together.

As Booth rounded up their little group and herded them down the street, towards some favorite restaurant of his, Sweets found himself smiling. Garcia glanced over her shoulder at him and gave him a knowing look and a wink.

Sweets huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes at her, but found he agreed with the sentiment. He may be ‘letting them go’, but this… this was alright. Lance only hoped the interesting pair would stay in touch. Maybe they’d even bring him a few cases.

 _Yeah_.

He smiled wider, watching Brennan start up a lecture on something Booth had said.

_A few cases would be good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned I love Garcia?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is there for his 'family' when the unimaginable happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for how awful I was with the last chapter, here's a prompt update. It's short, but I just couldn't write anymore. It's too emotional...  
> Ugh the feels.  
> This is set during The Slave of Duty. No corresponding Bones episode. There is dialogue from the episode in the chapter.

Calm. Peaceful.

Sweets was beginning to see that the two were nothing alike—not really. There’s the sort of calm that’s peaceful, yes. But there is also the form of peaceful that’s chaotic and full of laughter and noise, and more importantly… there’s a horrible, painfully silent sort of calm that’s full of unspoken emotion—full of helplessness and regret.

Full of guilt.

He should have known—he should have _prepared_. He should have helped more. Somehow, _anyhow._ It didn’t _matter_ that he didn’t have the clearance or the resources or the power. He should have done _something_.

Sweets was completely numb. He sat with his old team at a simple round table, surrounded by the subdued hum of a crowd in mourning. No one at the table attempted conversation. Their plates were adorned with token scraps and crumbs, but no one attempted to eat. It was like the life had been drained straight out of them; they merely gazed vacantly at the table, at the crowd, at each other… It was quiet. It was calm.

It was not peaceful.

It was a tornado of what-ifs, of questions for the future, of regrets for the past.

Sweets found himself thinking, over and over, that he should have known. He should have known Foyet would manage to get Hotch’s family, in witness protection or not. He should have _known_. As he sat, subdued, watching little Jack stand stone-faced next to his father and aunt, bravely accepting condolences like a true miniature Hotchner, Lance couldn’t help remembering the horrible moment from a week ago on repeat, like a scratched record.

The phone call had come out of the blue on an ordinary _peaceful_ day; it had shocked him to the core. He had been settled behind his desk finalizing a run-of-the-mill psych evaluation, the clock on the wall happily declaring his day officially over and that he could leave at any time. When his phone rang and he saw Emily on the caller ID, he expected to be notified of a case.

“Hey, Em,” he had greeted cheerfully, “You got a case?”

“Lance…” she started hesitantly. After a moment she sighed and cleared her throat. “Listen,” she tried again, “We don’t… we don’t have a case. I guess,” he voice gained a strained note, “you could say we just finished one.”

“Emily, what happened?” Lance dropped his pen and started drumming on his desk.

After a long moment, the profiler provided a partial answer in the same strained voice, “It was Foyet.”

“Foyet?” With that one word, Sweets’ world dropped from underneath him. Of course it was Foyet. _Of course_. How could he have _ever_ stopped worrying about that? The team had been renewing their chase for weeks—ever since the incident with the notes sent to Karl Arnolds. It had been only a matter of time until… Until…

“Emily, what _happened_? Is Hotch ok?”

“Hotch… is uninjured,” Prentiss allowed hesitantly.

Although he was relieved, Sweets didn’t allow himself a moment of respite, his agitation driving him out of his office chair to pace his all too silent office. “Haley?” he persisted frantically, “Jack?”

“Jack was untouched. Haley…” again, Emily trailed off, “Haley didn’t…”

“No…” he whispered, halting his pacing to grip the back of his couch.

“But Foyet is gone,” she powered on, her voice gaining strength, “For good this time.”

“Dead?” he checked.

“Dead,” she confirmed, a note of vindictive pleasure in her voice.

Back in the present, Lance glanced across the table at Emily, easily meeting her eyes. Like everyone else, she looked regal in her mourning—a black dress and simple earrings— and could have be attending some fancy diplomatic dinner for her mother… except for the crease between her eyebrows that betrayed her empathetic pain. Similarly, Derek looked like he was holding the weight of the world on his shoulders, and JJ and Will seemed emotionally exhausted. Penelope looked flat and colorless in all black; Spencer looked out of place and tense in his suit jacket. Rossi was unusually quiet, and Kevin… Kevin kept sliding down in his chair like he wanted to disappear.

Sweets understood the feeling.

Suddenly Rossi cleared his throat and stood up. “I’m going to give Hotch a break,” he announced softly. The table murmured quiet agreement and watched him swiftly move towards the line in front of the worn agent. Sweets was relieved to see that Jack was no longer at his father’s side. Hopefully he had gone to do something a child should actually do….

It was just all _wrong_ on so many levels.

A minute later, Rossi walked past brandishing two glasses of whiskey with Hotch in tow. This seemed to break the vow of silence the table had inexplicably enacted, and Emily turned to them at large to voice the question running though all of their minds: “What do we do?”

Derek shrugged and gave voice to the only possible answer: “There’s nothing we can do.” It was a truly bitter pill to swallow. There was nothing more they could’ve done when Foyet had cornered Hotch’s family and there was nothing they could do now, either.

Sweets let out a strangled sigh and leaned forward to rest his face in his hands.

From his blinded position he heard Morgan continue, “We’ve just gotta wait him out.”

He heard Spencer shift next to him. “Do you think he’ll ever come back?” the genius ventured, voice hollow.

“Would you?” JJ murmured, sounding as drained as she looked.

“He’ll come back,” Derek jumped back in, sounding certain. Sweets looked up to frown at the acting BAU supervisor. As a therapist, he objected to that on a fundamental level. Morgan, however, was gazing at the table in that hundred-yard-stare way, and his next statement added some clarity, “I just don’t know what he’ll look like when he does.”

Sweets closed his eyes tightly at that. Yeah… As a therapist he disagreed, but as a profiler, there was no other answer. Being a BAU agent was who Hotch _was_. Sweets swallowed hard. _No matter how unforgiving the job is, or how much he loves his son_ , he thought quietly, _Hotch won’t stop until he’s dead._ But he’d hold out hope that his old supervisor would change his world perspective and retire long before that happened.

“We just need to be there for him when he’s ready,” JJ offered.

There was nothing anyone had to say to that; it was, after all the unspoken and ultimate truth. They were family and there was no way they’d to anything _but_ support Hotch in whatever he decided to do.

Sweets caught sight of Jessica helping her nephew get food and found he had already reached a decision. No matter what, no matter how, as the member of their little family with the least demanding job, he would be there for Aaron, Jack, and Jessica every step of the way.

As though his thought had jinxed the calm (although not peaceful) atmosphere, Morgan’s phone rang.

“They can’t be calling us in, not tonight,” he murmured, flipping it open.

“I’m on it,” JJ mirrored him, pulling out her own phone. Penelope opened her mouth, eyes beginning to water again, but she seemed unable to say anything.

After a moment, Morgan flipped his phone shut, looking resigned; Prentiss turned to him, an expression that was half angry, half desperate, plastered across her face. “We can’t go,” she protested the inevitable.

“We have to,” he sighed, standing up and tossing his napkin on the table. “I’ll get Rossi.”

 “Talk to Strauss,” Reid urged JJ, as Morgan walked towards the pair on the balcony, “Tell her to send another team.”

“There’s no other team available,” JJ shook her head, frowning at her phone screen. “Nashville is calling us in. Second body in two weeks, both killed on consecutive Friday nights. They realize they’re up against the clock and are hoping we’ll find something they didn’t.”

Sweets watched each of his friends gather themselves, visibly picking up their pieces and bracing themselves for the job they were obligated to perform. It was both crushingly sad and incredibly inspiring; in that moment he almost wished he could go with them and help. But… no. He had something to do that they _couldn’t_ … all because of their job. He had the time where they had responsibility.

Together the team stood, JJ turning to say goodbye to Will, Garcia doing the same with Kevin. Lance stood as well, wished them all luck, and gave Pen her customary goodbye hug, before turning to his self-imposed mission.

On his way outside, he passed Rossi and Morgan, to whom he murmured more good-byes and good-lucks, before coming to a stop before Hotch. He looked even worse up close.

“Lance,” the mourning man greeted.

“Aaron,” he returned, attempting to convey the depth of his sympathy and concern in the greeting, hoping to avoid saying the words the agent had heard a hundred times already. Based on the tired, grateful look he received, he succeeded.

Together they turned to lean against the weathered stone railing to look out into the calm and eerily quiet night. It was cool and humid, but not cold or wet. On a different night, it could’ve been peaceful. On a different night, Sweets could see himself curling up outside with a good book.

Sweets doubted he’d be settled enough to do anything of the sort for a long while.

After several minutes of companionable silence, Hotch sighed, “I don’t know what to do.” As soon as he started to speak, Sweets knew he was speaking to his unofficial therapist, and not just his friend. As far as Lance was aware, he was one of the only people who got to see the stoic man at his most vulnerable.

Hotch turned to look at him, a look of utter loss plastered across his face, “I know I have to put Jack first, but I don’t know _how_.” He looked back out into the darkness, “Haley was his whole world, his one constant; I was never around enough. There’s no way I can replace her— I know that— but I don’t know how to fill in the hole she left even a _little_.”

Sweets turned to face him better, examining his profile intently as he attempted to sooth him, “Hotch, you don’t have to do it alone.” When he turned with a slight frown on his face, Sweets continued, “I know for a fact that the entire team is there for you, even though they’re constrained by the job, and I’m sure Will would be happy to help around his own job, too.”

“I know,” he murmured softly, “But—”

Sweets shook his head, unwilling to let that train of thought, whatever it may be, continue, and interrupted, “Beyond that, you have Jessica and Jack. They are hurting, yes, _just like you_. And like you, they are both so strong. You’ll get through it together.”

Hotch smiled at that, the edges slightly watery.

“And Hotch,” he continued, “I’m here, too.” Sweets looked away before the other man could meet his eyes, staring determinedly at the stone between his hands. “I’d do anything to help,” he murmured, “I know I’m not family, but I care for you and Jack.” He shrugged, still focused on the railing, “I have the time, since my new job is so predictable, and I… I’d like to help. In any way I can.”

“Sweets, you _are_ family,” Hotch murmured, voice thick, as he rested a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “I would be grateful for your help. And… I would be grateful for your company.”

Finally, Sweets looked up, meeting his old supervisor’s exhausted look with his own tearful gaze. He gave a weak smile, “Then my company is all yours.”

* * *

Sweets pulled his arm out of the top shelf of Hotch’s pantry and grinned before rocking back onto his feet, turning, and brandishing the abandoned bag of flour in victory at his cooking partner. She responded with a smile as bright as her curly blond hair. “Here you go, Jessica,” he declared, offering the ingredient.

She took it with a chuckle, “I thought you were going to fall over and take the cabinet with you there for a second, Lance.”

“Well, that would’ve been exciting,” he commented, turning to dig through the fridge.

Jessica shook her head and chuckled again, opening the bag and glancing at the recipe. “Yeah. _Exciting._ ”

“Hey, at least we had some,” he gestured at the flour as he set out the ground beef he had bought on his way over. “Imagine! If you had used up all of it for pancakes last night, one of us would’ve had to go shopping.”

She grinned at him. “Or we could’ve just skipped the cookies,” she pointed out.

“Skip the _cookies_?”

She laughed at that, “You sound just like Jack.”

“Well,” Sweets set out a few spices and checked his tomato sauce (Rossi would be proud), “Jack is a smart man.”

“That he is,” she agreed easily.

For a minute they worked in silence, adding ingredients and checking recipes, before Jessica flipped the switch to turn on the mixture, braced her hands on either side of it, and dropped her head with a sigh.

Sweets gave her back a concerned look, but waited for her to speak first.

“The FBI offered Aaron retirement,” she finally offered. As though her comment was a signal, Jack let out a squeal from the next room and his father yelled something about coming to get him, a note of barely contained laughter in his voice.

“Is he taking it?” Sweets prompted, even though he already knew the answer.

“No,” she murmured, “It’s who he _is_. We all know that—I do, Jack does, and so does he. He wouldn’t be able to live without his job. And I have no problem taking care of Jack.”

“They’re family,” he filled in for her.

Jessica nodded, “Yeah.”

He finished shaping the last meatball and turned to study her tense back. “But…” he prompted.

“It’s just all so much. I can do it—I know I can—for Aaron and Jack, and _Haley_. But I just want to curl up into a corner and… and _cry._ I know it solves nothing, but… but it’s so hard to be strong. _Haley_ was always the strong one, not _me_.” By the end, the woman was practically sobbing, wiping desperately at her eyes and leaning heavily on the counter.

Without any hesitation, Lance moved forward and pulled her into a hug. “Jessica,” he murmured, “Crying is _good._ It is a natural emotional response that releases healthy endorphins. It’s _ok_ to remember your sister, to break down and pick yourself up.” As he spoke, she hesitantly leaned into his hug. “You can fall to pieces and still be strong; that’s how grief works. You break and you cry and you glue yourself back together and move forward. Over and over. And _eventually_ it stops hurting as much, and you’ll be able to remember her without shattering.”

“I… I _know_ that,” she sobbed, turning slightly into his hold.

“But sometimes it’s good to hear someone else say it,” he smiled down at her, “It’s what I _do_.”

She let out a watery laugh and finally hugged him back properly. “Do you give all your grieving patients hugs?”

Sweets shook his head slightly, “Only the ones I consider family.”

He felt her smile against his shoulder before she pulled back. “Thank you, Lance, for everything.” She finished wiping her tears away and visibly shook herself—gluing herself back together for the time being.

“Anytime. Like I said, Hotch is like family, so that makes you and Jack family too,” he shrugged, “I may work for the FBI, but I’m more flexible than the BAU team; I’m here whenever you need help.”

“Well,” she glanced behind him at the stove before giving him a smirk, “Right now I could use some help with dinner.”

He gave her a mock salute and a “Yes ma’am!” before turning back to the delicious scents wafting from the pots behind him. Listening to her chuckle as she turned back to her own work, Jack’s renewed squeals— likely from tickling— echoing in the background, Lance allowed himself a content smile.

They were hurting, but he was helping. And… slowly, bit by bit, things were getting better. None of this was right, and it never would be, but it might just be ok.

And that would be good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't break anyone but myself with that one.  
> Jessica developed more as a character than I had originally planned, but I've always liked her and wanted to honor the strength she displays after loosing her sister. She and Haley are so clearly related....  
> I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable aftershocks catch Sweets by surprise. (AKA I'm mean to him and give him a very ugly panic attack.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M STILL ALIVE!  
> Sorry I haven't updated this fic in a month. I got stuuuuck. But then, like two days ago at 10pm I sat down and this emotional messy wrote itself. I apologize in advance for the roller coaster ride ahead. But... Lance struggles with PTSD and I'm taking liberties with it by mixing it with some (far less severe) emotional issues I've had or experienced or seen in the past.  
> This is set after The Slave of Duty but before Retaliation. Also no Bones episode, but I promise there will be some more Bones elements coming soon.  
> I hope you like it!
> 
> I DO NOT CLAIM TO UNDERSTAND THE ISSUE OF PTSD. It is a complicated thing that I have never experienced or seen. I probably got at least 90% of my bastardized representation wrong. Just an FYI.

It took Sweets nearly a week to realize it was real life.

That may sound strange, especially since he had practically attached himself to Hotch (and thus Jack and Jessica) at the hip, but some part of him just refused to acknowledge it was real. Some part of him refused to acknowledge that he had almost lost an almost-father, and that Jack _had_ lost his mother.

Some part of him refused to acknowledge that Foyet was dead.

Oh, he _wanted_ Foyet dead—don’t get him wrong. He was _relieved_ the sadistic killer was gone for good, but it didn’t feel real. Sweets drifted through his life, helping Hotch and Jessica with Jack, aiding all three of them with their grief, performing his typical responsibilities at work… but it was all, well, _hazy_.

It had been a blur since Emily had called him with the horrible news—a blur of pain, of tears, of black clothing and piles of strangers’ gifts in Hotch’s living room. The fear and hope and _numbness_ all blurred together until he couldn’t really tell them apart: he was terrified and relieved and guilty and content and unsettled and… everything at once and nothing at all.

He was everything because it was complicated; he was nothing because it was _too_ complicated.

Somehow, he managed to ignore it for a week. He ignored the prickling behind his eyes that would appear out of the blue when he was alone in his office or watching Jack play with his father. He ignored the sick roiling in his stomach when he encouraged stories about Hayley or when he flipped back in his notes on a patient and came across _that_ date. He ignored the smile he couldn’t hold back around Jack—wonderful Jack with his bright eyes and sad smiles and too-intelligent words. He ignored how he got light headed when he stood up too fast or sat still for too long, or how he watched his clock and phone just _that_ much more carefully during the day, or how he looked forward to his time with the family.

He ignored the sharp stabbing pain just beneath his heart, the tightness around his chest, the _something_ in his throat… But, if you try to stop a river, the dam will eventually overflow.

And sometimes, it breaks.

For Sweets it happened on the quiet Sunday morning the week following the funeral. Rossi had, like usual, stuffed him with good Italian cooking the previous night, so his morning started off slowly. He got up, drank juice in lieu of breakfast, and wandered to his couch, picking up a book on the way. He curled up in the low golden-red sunlight, and started reading.

He read the first page.

Then, he read it again.

And again.

After the fifth repetition or so, he found himself just sitting there in a fugue, staring at some imaginary point in the distance beyond the words on the page. It was almost like he was attempting to divine some hidden message in the granulation of the page, like some bastardized tea leaf reading.

He wasn’t even sure what the book was about.

It was there, staring at nothing and everything, that Sweets came to a few conclusions. For starters, he felt pretty much nothing. He had already known this, of course, just like he already knew he was feeling a chaotic bit of everything mixed together in an impossible collage that just sort of canceled itself out. Rather, he now noticed he felt pretty much nothing in a conscious manner because it finally struck him as odd. He was functioning fine— extraordinarily so, in fact— but it was more like an out-of-body experience where his body just kept doing what it always did without him.

His second observation was that that was quite unsettling and he should probably do something about it.

From there, some vague thought about using PTSD coping methods to help led to another distant observation: he had not experienced a panic attack since Gormogon bombed Booth and Brennan.

That prompted relief and, strangely, amusement, followed swiftly by a crippling sensation of guilt.

After that, things became a great deal fuzzier for a few seconds. When it passed, he found himself on the floor in front of his couch, his coffee table on its side, and his juice thrown in a splattered orange halo on the coarse white rug with the cup still trundling away across the room. He was gasping desperately for breath, grappling weakly with the soft fabric behind him and immeasurably thankful for his book—which was wedged in a beautifully grounding and uncomfortable way between his back and the wooden base of his mysteriously vacated furniture.

As he hyperventilated, he forced himself to first observe his physical surroundings—cataloguing each sensation—before turning his attention inward; before attempting to put a name to everything he was feeling.

Most of it was fear and desperation, but that was normal for his panic attacks. Also normal, or at least not unexpected, was the faint non-existent sense of pain and horror and blood—but he pushed it away as well. It bore no relevance to the greater issue, at least not this time.

Even after he worked past that, fear was still the easiest to identify. He was terrified of being so numb, and he was terrified of the future. Of… something like Foyet happening again. Of Jack losing his father, the team losing a leader, of he himself losing a friend and mentor. (Of losing anyone ever again.)

After that, he was relieved. He was so very thankful Hotch and Jack were ok, and that they, and Jessica, were letting him in to help. He was relieved he _could_ help.

But…he was guilty he was relieved. And he was guilty he hadn’t done anything earlier. That he _couldn’t have_. But even worse… he was guilty he had never really known Hayley. He was guilty he couldn’t grieve with the broken family he had come to love.

Love. He _loved_ them. He loved them almost as much as he had loved his parents, and it almost hurt. See, he had loved Hotch as a father for quite some time, but Jessica had swiftly wormed her way into his heart and Jack had outright stolen it from under his nose. Every moment he spent with them was precious and that was terrifying and exhilarating and so very comfortable. Like a cozy blanket and a cup of hot chocolate in the middle of a raging blizzard.

And despite it all, the ups and downs and happiness and doubts, despite the confliction and numbness, he was more content in his routine and his _purpose_ than since before he was— before…

_Damn it_.

Before he was _taken_.

Before he was abducted from a job and team he loved and thrown into a horrible twisted hell, completely at the mercy of a faceless maniac who tore him apart until there was nothing left. Until he was broken and scattered beyond repair.

He had gotten better, yes. With the help of his team, his _family_ , he pieced himself back into a shape that vaguely resembled who he had been before. It hadn’t been the same, though. He loved his old team and he loved his new job, but he hadn’t been fully content, not really.

Not until Hayley died.

And that unsettled him.

What did it say about who he was? How could he _possibly_ be ok with this? Hotch’s _wife_ , Jack’s _mother_ , Jessica’s _sister_ , was _dead_. Gone, forever, at the hands of a man who stalked and hunted, even in death. How could Lance accept the gift his life had become when it had been given to him by a murderer?

The numbness was gone, shocked from his system by his attack, which soon faded as well. He could breathe freely once more, and with his new found breath, he found himself clutching painfully at his hair for a horribly long moment before shooting to his feet. Driven by a restless energy, he paced aimlessly and frantically around his apartment, tracking sticky orange juice wherever he went. He’s not sure how long he paced, but as his energy dwindled he attempted to occupy his attention in other ways—to avoid the swirling mess of emotions thrashing about in his mind.

He found himself staring vacantly out his window, tossing about on his bed, blinking in the fluorescent light of the fridge, examining the pixels in TV ads… He found himself doing everything that qualified as nothing until even that was too much. When he wore himself down to the figurative bone, he collapsed onto the couch, huddled into a ball, clutched his knees, and _sobbed_. He sobbed at nothing and everything, powerfully and pointlessly, like his life depended on it.

And in that moment, for all he knew, maybe it did.

* * *

It was later, although Lance had no idea how much later, when he was startled from his exhausted tear-filled half-asleep state by a firm pounding on the door.

“Lance?” a concerned voice called, deep and a little hoarse, “Are you in there?”

Blinking in confusion, Sweets lifted his head and surveyed his apartment, which looked like the victim of a small orange-flavored hurricane, rubbing absently at the too-tight skin beneath his eyes.

“Lance?” the voice filtered through his door, accompanied by another round of pounding, even more desperate than before.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the door. “Yeah?” he called back, attempting to sound sleepy and confused (which was true), but it manifested as an utterly pathetic croak.

The resultant sigh of relief was so loud he heard it through the door. A second later, said block of wood shifted as though someone was leaning their weight against it. “Are you alright?” the man on the other side asked, a little more calmly.

Sweets blinked a little dumbly at the door when the owner of the voice finally clicked in his mind. “Hotch?” he asked in confusion, staring at the door from a scarce two feet away, “I thought you were taking Jack to the museum.” _It’s Sunday, right?_

“I did,” the father replied, sounding a little strained, “Lance, are you ok?”

Lance felt like his head was full of cotton. He blinked at the door. “Yeah?” It came out as a question. He was alright. _Right?_

“Spencer called,” Aaron continued, “He said you haven’t been answering your phone.”

“My phone?” he murmured a little dumbly to himself.

“Sweets, let me in,” the agent demanded.

On autopilot, Sweets did just that. He mechanically undid the locks and swung the door open, revealing a slightly disheveled Hotch with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. It was quite the feat to see so much emotion displayed openly on the stoic man’s face. Upon seeing Sweets, his face became even more expressive, eyes widening slightly in surprise and mouth tilting in concern. He reached out and clasped the younger man on the shoulder almost absently as his gaze slid past him to the apartment beyond.

Still rather fuzzy and confused, Sweets turned to look as well. He was surprised to note the diming evening sun filtering through the window. Where had the day gone? A moment later, observing the toppled coffee table, it all came rushing back—the numbness, the panic attack, the confliction, the crying…

_Shit_.

His PTSD had gotten the better of him and Aaron—the _last_ person who should have to deal with his crap right now—was here to see the aftermath.

“You haven’t eaten today,” Hotch stated drily. Lance whipped back to find a slight frown on his face as he eyed him (and his pajamas) in concern. He squeezed Sweets’ shoulder, “We’re going to fix that, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

Sweets squirmed away from him and opened his mouth. Hotch turned to shut the door and Sweets stood there a little dumbly until Hotch turned back with that horribly concerned face still firmly in place.

“I’m fine,” he murmured quietly and far less convincingly than he had intended.

Hotch gave him his stony version of a wry look.

“I’m _fine_ , really,” he protested. It fell flat again, and he shifted slightly before adding guiltily, “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Hotch narrowed his eyes slightly (which was Hotch for ‘slightly pissed off’) before placing a hand at Sweets’ back and literally pushing him into the kitchen. “I get to decide what I should and shouldn’t have to deal with,” he said firmly from behind Sweets’ left ear.

Sweets knew immediately from that tone that this was not a battle he could win. Thus, as he was firmly placed into a kitchen chair, he resigned himself to the inevitable and watched his friend dig through his fridge.

Ten minutes later, Aaron was ushering a sufficiently fed Lance back into the living room and onto the couch. He swiftly followed suit, settling beside his former teammate and fixing him with a pointed look.

Ten minutes after that, Sweets was sobbing, trying to explain the chaotic mess of emotions he hadn’t even known he had been bottling up. Profilers were far too good at extracting information when they wanted to.

“Lance,” Aaron murmured in an impossibly soft voice he had only ever heard directed at Jack, “That is _not_ true. Foyet is not responsible for anything except taking Hayley away. _You_ are responsible for keeping me and my _family_ from falling apart.”

“But,” he gasped between one sob and the next, “I should’ve—”

“If I hear that word from you one more time…” Hotch interrupted with enough venom that Lance looked at him in shock, sobbing momentarily paused. The older man hefted a sigh and rubbed at his forehead, “I swear, Lance… do you not listen to _any_ of your own advice? I distinctly remember having this conversation in reverse only a few days ago.”

Sweets found himself simply staring at his friend in some indistinct combination of confusion and disbelief. Hotch shook his head in exasperation.

“There is nothing different you could have possibly done; there’s no way you could have even _known_. If I’m not to blame for Hayley’s death, then you certainly aren’t,” Aaron’s voice practically dripped with conviction. “What was it you told me a few days ago? ‘All we can do is remember, move forward, and make the most of what we have.’”

Sweets shook his head helplessly. Hotch just didn’t _get_ it; he didn’t understand _why_ he felt so helpless, why he wanted to, irrationally, burst into tears again. Lance sighed, “I didn’t even know Hayley, Hotch.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, “But you have helped her stay alive in the hearts of those who did.”

Sweets couldn’t help smiling, albeit bittersweet, at the powerful emotion in the father’s voice. It was warm and welcoming. It was _why_ he had volunteered to help with the family so much—to hear that he was making a difference. It was the same reason he was a therapist. He wanted to _help_.

Lance pulled himself together and directed the slightly watery smile at Hotch, murmuring “I’m glad I’ve been able to help.” He attempted to convey his message in a way that would convince the agent to let the topic go. Aaron didn’t need to deal with his PTSD; Sweets was aiding _them_ , not the other way around.

Hotch, however, was not fooled. He narrowed his eyes slightly at the therapist and gripped him by the shoulder, forcing Lance to look at him. His gaze was piercing and evaluating. In fact, it was the same expression he always wore when attempting to figure out a particularly tricky unsub. “But…” he prompted, leaving no room for circumvention.

Lance felt his will power crumble under his mentor’s piercing gaze and shut his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath and attempted to explain once more. “It’s like I’ve been taking advantage of her death to get closer to you and Jack and Jessica. If she hadn’t died—”

“You may never have gotten to know them,” Hotch finished, giving his former teammate’s shoulder a soft squeeze. Sweets met his eyes as he gave a slight wry smile, “But you’ve been family to me for a while now, Lance, and it was our— _their_ —choice to let you in. You’ve done more for us than you realize.”

Sweets opened his mouth, but Hotch cut him off and continued, “And don’t say you shouldn’t be having these problems because you didn’t know her and can’t grieve. That may be true, but you are too close to this—to close to _us_ —to treat this like your typical therapy session. You and the team almost lost me and we _have_ lost you before.” Lance flinched a bit at the reference to his abduction, and Aaron paused to squeeze his shoulder again in comfort. “Everything about this is much more personal than the scenarios you help with in your office. Right?”

Reluctantly, Lance nodded his agreement. His face was dry of all tears by now, and although he was still and emotional mess, the warm weight of Hotch’s hand on his shoulder was helping more than he could say. With every word his mentor spoke, his guilt and confliction faded just the tiniest bit.

Aaron let out a gusty sigh, quirking his lips into a tired smile, “I may not be qualified, and I admit I don’t quite understand, but I can tell you that anything and everything you’re feeling is _fine_. The good and the bad.” He stopped, squeezing Sweets’ shoulder again in emphasis, before letting go and giving him a stern look. “At least, it’s fine _if_ ” a hit of humor crept into his tone, “you promise to not pull away. Jack is _far_ too attached to his Uncle Lance already.”

A smile—a real smile—crept across his face at that. Sweets could admit that he was far too attached to Jack as well; he truly enjoyed every little outing he spent with the intelligent boy, although his favorites were when it was just the two of them. That had started to happen more towards the end of the week as Hotch prepared to start working again and Jessica worked ahead so she’d be more available when her brother-in-law would inevitably get called away. There were some benefits to being a writer, apparently.

Hotch gave him a warm look and Sweets realized with a slight jolt that he felt almost normal again. The reminder of Jack needing him had pushed the last of the overwhelming emotion aside, leaving him drained both emotionally and physically, but calm all the same.

For a minute they sat in companionable silence. Then, Aaron leaned forward and grabbed the side of the coffee table, pulling it back onto its feet.

That drew Lance’s attention to the orange juice covered floor, causing him to let out a quiet groan. _That’s going to be a_ pain _to clean up_ , he muttered to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hotch give him an amused look, with his lips tilted up and eyes crinkled.

“I can get started on helping you clean,” he offered, voice heavy with amusement.

Sweets couldn’t help but give him a slightly incredulous look, “You don’t have to—”

“You should call Reid,” Hotch interrupted, giving him a slight smile, “He was very concerned when you didn’t answer for your weekly debate.”

Lance felt his eyes widen comically, and a strange mix of guilt and warmth rushed through him. “Crap,” he muttered with feeling, “I can’t believe I…”

Hotch reached over and gave him a pat on the back. “You were indisposed,” he told his friend in his typical dry manner, “It happens. Now you’re a little better and you can call him back.”

“Yeah,” Sweets nodded absently in agreement, already standing to look around the room for his phone.

Aaron stood as well, heading towards the cleaning closet. As he passed Sweets he added sagely, “Just make sure you tell him to call Garcia off while you’re at it.” They shared a look of amusement at that, but after a moment—when Hotch had moved on—Lance found he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to laugh or cry at the thought anymore. Hell, he was almost used to that already.

_But_ , he mused, staring at the phone presently situated in his hand, _it’s a little better than it was._ I’m _better than I was. This PTSD shit sucks, but I can handle it._

On autopilot his hands dialed a familiar number and he raised the ringing piece of technology to his ear. It rang twice before there was a click and Spencer’s voice exploded through the speaker, “Lance! Are you okay? I tried calling you earlier but you weren’t answering so I called Hotch….”

Yes, he could handle this. He could handle the panic attacks and emotional incompetency and everything that came with it. He did, after all, have an _incredible_ family who loved him—scars and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how great I was with Hotch's characterization, but I'm rather pleased with their interaction.  
> As always, let me know what you think! I'll try to have the next chapter up as soon as I can. It may involve Jack. (Hint hint)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mild filler chapter, featuring Jack and the signs of healing in the wake of a tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted!!! I promise I'm still working away on this. I've had most of this chapter done for months now, but I finally finished editing. I also have a fair bit of the next one and an outline through the one after that. No promises on when I'm going to get around to posting though-- life is rather insane lately, since school started back up.  
> The next three(ish) chapters are all going to be set around "The Verdict in the Story" in Bones and a variety of Criminal minds episodes. This particular chapter references "Risky Business". No dialogue from either show was used.

It was mid-morning. Sweets was steadily weaving his way through the gray and brown halls of the Hoover building, a simple manila folder resting more heavily than it probably should in his hand. After this hand delivery he would have to head back to his office to meet a patient—a new patient at that—and then continue through the motions of his day… patients, evaluations, consultations, etc., etc.  He loved his job, but he was already itching to be gone. Today the drab interior of the FBI building was more irritating than comforting in its monotony, and Sweets was certain the day would never end. _Hell,_ the three minute walk upstairs felt like it was taking _hours_.

See, Lance’s life had found a rhythm: work, regular calls with his team—no, his _family_ —regardless of if they were on cases, occasional meals with any combination of said family, and, most importantly, biweekly visits with his nephew.

His _nephew_.

It was magical how Jessica _and_ Aaron and _Jack_ were all so insistent on that fact. Aaron had always been a mentor to Lance—like a father or big brother—and Jessica had quickly claimed the role of big sister, so it made sense that Jack was like nephew to him…. But it still did funny things to his heart whenever Jack called him ‘Uncle Lance’.

As Sweets stared blankly at the changing numbers displayed above the elevator, he couldn’t help marveling over the idea once again. It still bothered him sometimes—the fact that he was a part of Jack’s life because his mother had died— but Hotch and Jessica had been _ruthless_ over the past two weeks, thoroughly scaring any lingering insecurities out of him until he was simply left with joy and anticipation.

Today was Wednesday, which meant Lance would get to leave work two hours early to pick Jack up. But, today was Wednesday, which meant Lance had started work two hours early, so the day would take _forever_. Suffice to say, he was crawling out of his skin.

To make it worse, he was about to deliver the least comfortable psych eval he had _ever_ done to one of his favorite ex-patients and the most terrifying woman on the face of the planet, _and_ he was absolutely certain the elevator was moving at half the speed it normally did.

The evaluation was on Max Keenan. This, of course, was _the_ Max Keenan (aka Matthew Brennan, aka Dr. Temperance Brennan’s father) who was at the root of two of his (ex-)patients’ problems. He was also the source of a great deal of Dr. Sweets’ unease. Keenan was going to trial for the murder of Deputy Director Robert Kirby, which, despite the victim’s high profile, was not all that unusual. No, what had Lance troubled was the fact that the prosecution was being led by Federal Prosecutor Caroline Julian, aka the most terrifying woman alive even _without_ her shared history with Hotch, and (more importantly in the scheme of things) Special Agent Seeley Booth, aka Dr. Brennan’s partner. The partner of the accused’s daughter.

It was messed up on so many levels.

Despite months of working with Booth and Brennan, and accepting that they _did_ work well together, Sweets could not fathom how they simply shrugged off the fact that Booth had arrested Brennan’s _father_.

Heaving a large sigh, Sweets stepped from the elevator and into utter chaos. The floor was bustling with activity, and Sweets had to dodge several agents on his way to Booth’s office. As he approached the glass doors he saw Ms. Julian seated in front of Booth’s desk, waving a folder around in her constant semi-dramatic manner, while Booth nodded along. Sweets determinedly pushed aside his worries and knocked politely before entering.

As he slipped into the room Booth gave him a polite nod and Ms. Julian turned around to look at him.

“I hope you’re here with that evaluation, Dr. Sweets,” the prosecutor eyed him critically. _This is why she terrifies me_ , he thought before her look intensified and he scrambled to answer.

“Yes, ah,” Sweets stepped forward, proffering the manila folder as though handing a piece of meat to a tiger, “Here it is.” _She’s more ferocious than Penelope and JJ combined, and has a better poker face than Emily_ , he observed, _All the worse, she knows Hotch. Hell, she worked_ with _Hotch._

Ms. Julian accepted it eagerly but paused to give the profiler a piercing look. “I’m not gonna bite you, chérie,” she told him sagely before promptly turning back towards Booth and flipping the file open.

The agent gave Sweets an amused look over the prosecutor’s head. After a moment of giving Booth an annoyed look, he chose to ignore it. “So, do we have a date yet?” he asked the pair.

Ms. Julian was thoroughly absorbed in the file so Booth answered. “Not yet,” he shook his head, “But they should be setting the trial soon.”

“Alright,” he nodded. After a moment, he looked at the prosecutors back. _I wonder if I should stay or…_

Without turning, Ms. Julian answered his unasked question, “Go back to your patients, chérie,” she urged, “You want to leave as soon as you can today.”

Sweets stared, absolutely flabbergasted, at the back of her head. How the _hell_ did she know that? _Does she know I pick up Jack on Wednesdays? And if so,_ how _?_ Sweets was somewhat relieved that Booth was giving the prosecutor a similar look; at least that meant she wasn’t some kind of mind-reader.

Eventually, Ms. Julian looked up from the folder at peered back at Sweets again. She gave him a slightly mischievous smile, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your nephew, now would you?”

“Did Aaron…?” Sweets ventured.

“I had a wonderful run-in with him the other day,” she confirmed, hand gestures accentuating her point, “He… may have mentioned it.”

Lance shook his head slightly. _Of course_. “Ok, so I’ll... uh, see you around.”

Ms. Julian gave him a firm nod and turned back to her file as Booth called his own goodbye, so the therapist slipped out of the office and back into the chaos of the bullpen. He carefully dodged a passing agent and set off toward the elevators, marveling quietly over Ms. Julian and her inescapable tidal wave of personality. The brief encounter did have the benefit of redirecting his impatient energy; he was no longer crawling out of his skin, which was a blessing. He was still eager to see Jack, but his focus had been effectively refocused to two separate puzzles: when the _hell_ did Aaron see Ms. Julian, and how on _earth_ was Booth and Brennan’s partnership going to survive the trial?

* * *

Lance pulled up outside the slightly worn combined elementary and pre-school building, complete with a battered sign, and gave a soft sigh as he felt all the worries of his day slide away to nothing. As soon as he pulled into a free spot near a side entrance to the school and turned his car off, the final bell of the day rang, prompting the door to bang open and a cascade of children to pour forth. Several frazzled looking adults—school staff—were already waiting at strategic points around the parking lot to watch over the chaos and ensure the children made it safely home. Sweets wasn’t sure how they managed to do it every day, all week long.

From all around Lance, as he watched safely in his seat, there was a cacophony of slamming car doors and parents calling names. The profiler himself, however, chuckled quietly at the adults desperate to escape the after school rush (and thus causing it), and leisurely reached a cooler out of the back seat, eased himself out of the car, and made his way towards a bench, dodging a crowd of laughing children running towards the buses in the process.

Lance settled onto the bench, the cooler beside his leg, and reached up to loosen his tie, watching the chaos of the parking lot as he did so. Not long after he settled himself, an excited cry came from behind him, “Uncle Lance!!”

Sweets turned and smiled at the rapidly approaching figure of his nephew, “Hey, Jack.”

“Did you bring a treat?” the four-year-old bounced around to the front of the bench, eyes immediately zeroing in on the cooler.

Sweets chuckled and motioned for Jack to join him on the bench; he did so with vigor, abandoning his backpack on the concrete under the bench in the process. Once the boy was settled and eyeing both Lance and the cooler with impatience, Sweets carefully unzipped the container and revealed a small selection of popsicles.

“Cool!” Jack exclaimed, “Is there orange?”

Lance smiled at the bouncing boy, answering his question by fishing through the colored ice to retrieve a bright orange treat. Jack’s eyes went wide in awe and excitement, and he started to reach for the treat before visibly stopping himself. The boy’s wide-eyed gaze slide up to meet Lance’s amused one.

He blinked earnestly, “Thank you, Uncle Lance.”

“You’re welcome, Jack,” Sweets chuckled, handing over the treat.

Like flipping a switch, Jack was suddenly a bouncing ball of energy again. He squirmed in his seat as he tore the clear plastic wrapping open, coating one hand in sticky orange juice as he did so, and gave the treat a victorious lick. “Have a green one!” Jack declared, peering into the cooler and taking another lick.

“Alright,” the honorary uncle agreed easily, fetching the specified flavor before zipping the cooler back up. “How was your day, Jack?”

“It was awesome!” the four-year-old exclaimed, “Mrs. Daniels gave us scissors and glue and all sorts of cool paper and we made our very own alphabets! And we did a song about finding a peanut, but it was rotten, and…”

Lance smiled at his nephew, letting his happy chatter wash over him as he carefully licked his sour apple popsicle. The therapist was unseemly grateful that the boy was doing so well; every time he got to see Jack shining with energy and joy, he stopped and took a deep breath and tried to imprint the feeling in his memory. There were still bad days —days when Jack was a shadow, a ghost, an empty shell going through the motions of living, or days when he disappeared like smoke and they scrambled to find him… and when they did he’d be curled into a tiny ball crying his heart out— but the bad days were happening less and less.

It had been two weeks since Lance had found some stability, three weeks since the funeral, and almost five weeks since Hayley’s death. It was tough going, but every painful moment and grief-laden tear was worth it if it meant Jack would smile like this for the rest of his life.

“—drew our families and Mrs. Daniels liked my picture so much that she asked if she could get a copy first! She’s gonna give it back tomorrow, and I can’t wait to show you and Dad and Aunt Jess.” Jack beamed proudly at Sweets and settled back on the bench with his treat, obviously satisfied with his summary of the day.

“That sounds wonderful,” Lance smiled at the pre-schooler. “We might have to make a few copies when you get it back so your Dad can hang one in his office.”

Jack pulled his face away from his treat and beamed. Satisfied with the smile Lance returned, he returned his mouth to the more important task of devouring his treat. It was one of the little things that Sweets had come to love about the boy; Jack wasn’t a very chatty kid, but he was always very enthusiastic when he _did_ have something to say.

Lance chuckled and ruffled his nephew’s hair, “Why don’t you finish that up and then we’ll go to the park for a bit. Does that sound good?” Jack nodded vigorously around his popsicle, sucking on it with renewed purpose. Lance laughed and returned to his own treat. The crowd was basically gone now, and the school was quiet. It was just him and Jack, covered in sticky juice in the spring afternoon sun.

Life was pretty darn good.

After a moment, the comfortable silence was interrupted by the ringing of a phone. Lance startled and juggled his melting treat as he reached for his phone with his less sticky hand.

“Dr. Sweets,” he answered without checking the caller ID, Jack giggling at him in the background.

“Lance,” a familiar voice greeted, “It sounds like you have your hands full.”

“Yeah,” he agreed easily, smiling, “and sticky. Your son is _quite_ the sticky handful.” Lance wrinkled his nose, setting Jack off in a fresh wave of giggles.

On the other end of the line, Hotch chuckled as well, “Oh, I know—believe me.”

Sweets smiled fondly at the younger Hotchner as he focused on the elder. “What’s up, Aaron?” he redirected the conversation.

Hotch let out a gusty sigh, a slight static crackling in the phone speaker, “We’re headed to Wyoming. JJ found a series of suspicious teen suicides that have all happened on Fridays. So…” he trailed off.

“So, just to make sure,” Lance continued the agent’s thought, “you’ve opened an equivocal—uh,” he cut himself off and edited out the word ‘death’, “—investigation.”

“Right,” he agreed, “We should be back by Saturday, even if there’s an unsub out there. I’ll call Jessica and let her know. Will you talk to Jack?”

“Of course,” he assured the father, “Will you ask Jessica if she’d like me to take Jack tonight?” On the bench beside Lance, Jack perked up, freezing mid-lick to stare up at his uncle.

The profiler chuckled, “I can probably tell you the answer is yes without talking to her, but I’ll let her know to call you.”

“Thanks, Aaron,” the therapist replied, grinning at the excited look on his nephew’s face, “and good luck.”

“And you, Lance,” Hotch returned with a smile in his voice. A moment later the line went dead and Sweets tucked his phone away.

“So, Jack, it sounds like I might have you for the rest of the day…”

“Really??!” Jack stared at his uncle with huge eyes.

“Really,” he assured the four-year-old. Said child let out an excited squeal in response and threw himself at his uncle for a hug.

Yeah… Life was pretty darn great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get far too much pleasure out of the idea of Caroline Julian and Hotch knowing each other from back when Hotch was a federal prosecutor. It tickles me. Like, a lot.  
> I hope you all enjoyed some Lance-Jack Uncle-Nephew fluff! I'll have the next chapter out as soon as I can.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial approaches, Rossi makes magic, Sweets begins plotting, and Jack is absolutely precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhh! Two months. Eeek! I'm sorry everyone! Life is insane, but I'm going to keep plugging on this-- promise!  
> This is the second chapter that details some of the trial from "Verdict in the Story". I believe the next chapter will be the last one set during that episode. I will warn you: I don't plan on covering the trial much! But in this AU, Sweets is a little more professional in how he speaks because of the practice he got at the BAU. This is also reflected in the conversation from the episode in this chapter.  
> Additionally, this chapter is set right after Risky Business and at the very beginning of Parasite. Both are kind-of mentioned.  
> And Jess being a writer? That's all on me. It's never mentioned what she does, so I made something up.

Lance relaxed in on himself as he rhythmically folded and rolled the slightly rubbery dough, slowly stretching out the starch into the characteristic texture of pasta. To his left, a large pot of water was just starting to steam, and behind him he could hear his cooking partner humming quietly to himself as he mixed spices and vegetables.

If someone had told him a year ago that he’d find this soothing—the motions of cooking, the sounds of the kitchen, the smell of Italian spices…. Well, Sweets would have been confused, to say the least. He had never liked cooking, growing up. When he was a young orphan in the system, the kitchen was firmly off limits in nearly every house he stayed in, sometimes violently so. Once his parents had adopted him, and helped ease him past his tumultuous stay with abusive foster families, the kitchen became a place of solace and whispered secrets—for just him and his mother—but he never cooked. In the beginning there were too many horrifying memories for him to stay when the knives were out and the stove was on, and later it became habit. He got over it by the time he had graduated early and was off alone at college, but his definition of ‘cooking’ back then was ‘heat it and hope it’s edible’. It had been a source of endless teasing from his mother.

Lance smiled softly to himself as he flipped the thin sheet of dough one last time, liberally dusting it with flour, before grabbing Rossi’s antique, well loved, yet pristine pasta cutter and lining up the blades with the edge of the dough. He thought his mother would be quite proud, if she could see him now.

Lance glanced up as his companion and mentor in all things edible appeared at his side, nodding approvingly at his technique. “You’re getting the hang of this,” Dave smiled at the young therapist.

Sweets smiled back, “Yeah, I think so. It’s starting to feel a bit like home.”

The profiler closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, “I can get behind that. And boy is it good to be home…”

“Rough case?” Lance asked in concern, moving to turn the heat under the now boiling water down.

Dave nodded and moved to take up the pasta cutter as Sweets moved away, continuing the task with practiced ease. “It hit JJ and Garcia the worst,” he shared, giving a small sigh. “Suicides are never easy, but when they’re accidental? Not only that, but prompted by a proxy strangler?” he shook his head, “It’s hard to get your head around.”

Lance grimaced slightly; he hadn’t heard the full story behind the case when Aaron had picked up Jack from their morning at the park. It was a lot worse and a lot better that he had thought. At least the killer hadn’t killed all those kids in person.

“But enough talk of killers,” Rossi declared with finality, dusting the fully cut pasta with one last layer of flour before scooping it up and plopping it into the pot of water. “How’s that big case you’re helping with going?”

Lance shrugged, easily transitioning away from the unpleasant topic of proxy killers, “I’m not really sure. I haven’t heard anything since I dropped off my final evaluation with Agent Booth and Ms. Julian on Wednesday.”

“Would that be Caroline Julian?” Rossi looked up from watching the pot, interest clear on his face.

Sweets eyes his friend carefully. “Yes…” he hazarded. He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know how Dave knew Ms. Julian or why he seemed so interested in her.

A faintly wistful smile crossed his face, “She’s quite something, isn’t she? A force of nature.”

Still a little cautious, Sweets nodded his agreement; if Ms. Julian put her mind to something, she was basically unstoppable.

Satisfied with Lance’s nod, Rossi turned toward his next task, plopping a sauce pan on the stove and moving towards the fridge as he spoke. “I met her through Hotch, as you might expect. I don’t know her well, but I have definitely enjoyed the few conversations we have had. But,” he paused, glancing up at Sweets, “You’re worried about this case and I’d bet anything it has nothing to do with Caroline.”

Lance heaved a gusty sigh and turned to lean back against the counter, “You’d be right.”

Rossi continued his current task—kneading spices into ground meat—but somehow managed to profile the younger man with his back turned, “It’s the partner pair, isn’t it? Booth and Brennan.”

The therapist squeezed his eyes shut, “Yeah.” He shook his head, even though Dave couldn’t see him, “I still don’t understand how Dr. Brennan can be ok with her partner prosecuting her _father_.”

“She sounds very logical,” Rossi hazarded.

“She is,” Sweets agreed, “But she’s _not_. I swear she feels more deeply than half of the people I help; she just refuses to acknowledge it.”

The Italian paused for a split second in his kneading, before continuing. “Are you sure that’s a problem? Do you have any reason to think she’ll let it affect her work? Based on what I’ve heard, she certainly hasn’t in the past.”

“No, I don’t,” Lance agreed, almost surprising himself with how easy it was. But he knew it was true. Just like how he knew Hotch would always be drawn to the BAU like a moth to the flame, he _knew_ Dr. Brennan would always be professionally detached and a brilliant crime-solver. “But that’s not what I’m worried about anyway.”

Rossi scooped the meat up and dropped it in the now hot sauce pan, before turning to direct his full attention on Sweets. “What are you worried about?”

Lance took a moment, gathering his thoughts and examining Dave’s face, which was crinkled in concern and curiosity. “I’m worried… that this trial might irrevocably damage their friendship. I’m not worried about their work; I’m sure that no matter what they will at least _pretend_ to be ok, and will keep it from affecting what they do together… But,” Sweets sighed. “They’re so much more than that to each other. They _get_ each other like no one else, even with the parts that don’t—that _shouldn’t_ —mesh.”

Rossi nodded, encouraging the young doctor to continue speaking, and moved to wash his hands.

Sweets slumped a little further against the counter, moving to rub his eyes. “The truth is, they’re friends and are incredible to watch.” He shook his head again, this time more to himself than anything else, “They’re _best_ friends, with explicit trust and understanding between them, and I don’t want them to lose that.”

Sweets looked up to find Rossi now leaning against the sink, an earnest understanding crinkling his brows. “Dave… I’m afraid the trial could _break_ the progress they’ve made.”

“Sounds complicated, kid,” Rossi agreed, “And they sure sound like an interesting pair.”

A little startled at the earnestly delivered understatement, Lance felt a smile cracking his face. He gave a light chuckle, “You have no idea.”

The veteran profiler gave him a small smile that crinkled his eyes, huffed a short laugh, and turned to the sizzling pan of meat to systematically begin breaking it into tiny little pieces. “I’m not sure how to help you, Lance. You’re not their therapist anymore, so it’s not like you see them all that often.”

“I know. Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d be able to help.” Sweets gave a one-armed shrug, still slouched against the counter watching Rossi work, “I guess I’ll just to what I can from the sidelines on this trial.”

Dave hummed his agreement. “You’ll do fine.”

Sweets nodded to himself and pushed off the counter, moving to retrieve the ingredients his friend had already mixed for the sauce. He’d been slacking enough; it was time to get back to work.

It was much later, when the pair were seated at Rossi’s kitchen table, wreathed in delicious aromas and feasting on the perfectly made pasta, that the BAU agent brought the topic up again.

He set down his fork and tilted his head slightly to the side, “I don’t know if it would help you at all, but I know what I’d do if it were me.” As Lance stared across at him in curiosity, Dave grinned, “I’d write a book.”

“A book?” Lance blinked in shock and confusion.

“Yeah. I might not even publish it, but something about outlining and gathering information… It helps me get my thoughts straight. Who knows,” Rossi grinned, “Maybe you could even convince them to go along with it; you could publish an analysis on their relationship.”

Sweets spent a long few minutes just sitting there, food forgotten, frowning at the idea. Write a book? Him? It was… a rather ridiculous thought. Especially since there was no way the anthropologist-agent pair would agree to go along with it.

_But…_ he glanced up at Rossi, who had resumed eating but was still watching the therapist with an amused glint in his eye. _It would be_ fun _…_

* * *

Sweets hadn’t expected to run into Booth and Brennan in the Royal Diner; his goal had been to grab a quick bite before heading to work. He should have guessed he’d run into someone from the Jeffersonian— as that was how he’d been introduced to the place to begin with —but it simply hadn’t occurred to him. As such, he had been mildly shocked when the partners had flopped into the seats across from him. Never one to turn down the opportunity to speak with the interesting duo, and with Rossi’s comments from the weekend still tumbling about his head, Sweets had simply greeted them and settled in for casual conversation over coffee and breakfast.

“So, how’re your cases going?” Lance inquired as a waitress left with their food plates, effectively interrupting a friendly debate over… carpet fibers? And their decomposition rate?

“We’re not working together,” Booth calmly informed his former therapist, looking almost relived as he broke through Dr. Brennan’s lecture.

“What?” Lance blinked in confusion at the pair across the table.

“We got split up,” Brennan informed him matter-of-factly, as though he simply needed the information phrased in a new manner.

“ _What_?” his eyebrows furrowed, “Why? I was under the impression that the bureau had accepted my evaluation and cleared your partnership.”

Dr. Brennan shook her head, dismissing his assumption. “The FBI says we can’t work together during the trial,” the anthropologist somehow sounded petulant, underneath the factual tone she always seemed to use. ( _This_ was why Sweets was convinced there was so much more to the scientist.)

“You know,” Booth waved a hand negligently as he elaborated, “Brennan’s dad murdered the Assistant Director of the FBI.”

Brennan nodded, “His trial begins next week.”

That had Lance’s eyebrows shooting up… _the date is already set_? He huffed a frustrated sigh, “I should have been informed.”

“Of the trial?” Brennan frowned at him, “Why?” After a moment, she glanced at Booth, pausing when she noticed he wasn’t surprised.

Booth shrugged a little, “Oh, Sweets did the psychological profile on Max for the prosecution.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me before?” she gave her partner an impressively indignant look.

Unable to resist, Sweets pointed at Brennan, “Why is that important to you?” The question was pure instinct from all their sessions together. It earned him a glare from both of his ex-patients, though.

“Sweets!” Booth exclaimed reproachfully, “No therapy.” Lance bit his tongue and restrained a sudden urge to throttle one or both of them as Booth turned to his partner and shrugged, “Because while it would matter to, say, a normal person, I just figured you wouldn’t care.”

After a brief pause, Brennan nodded in satisfaction, turning back to her coffee, “You’re absolutely right.”

Lance’s urge to cause bodily harm shifted to himself as he found himself wanting to slam his head against the table. Maybe repeatedly. Honestly, he loved watching the two of them interact and _knew_ how well they worked together, but he was sincerely regretting clearing them from therapy. It was so _painfully_ clear that their relationship had become even more enabling since they had ceased their sessions.

“Dr. Brennan,” Sweets leant forward slightly, attempting yet again—however futile he knew it would be—to reach the stubborn scientist, “everyone you work with, including your former therapist, is endeavoring to imprison your father.”

“Booth is right; it doesn’t bother me,” she insisted, putting her cup down.

“Booth is wrong, yes it does,” Sweets found himself sniping back almost childishly. Mentally, he slapped himself— he was going about this all wrong, but he had no idea how to change his trajectory. He sighed, “Perhaps I could suggest you look past your instinct to rationalize the situation and allow yourself to feel it as well?”

Brennan, just as he had suspected, simply raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him, “I’m fine.”

Sweets let out a frustrated huff. “If you were fine you would be balled up in the corner,” he gestured behind her for emphasis, “ _weeping_ or semi-catatonic.”

After a beat, Brennan turned her incredulous look to Booth, “Does that sound fine to you?

“Sorry Bones,” Booth shook his head, surprising them both, “I got to agree with Sweets on this one.”

Sweets found himself staring at the agent for a few seconds, marveling over the fact that he was preceptive enough to cater to his partner’s quirks but still recognize the pain she was hiding. Truly, this pair was incredible.

The therapist quickly recovered and turned his attention back to the subject of his concern, absently observing the frustrated set to her jaw. He focused on giving her his most honest and earnest expression, “I think it’s important that you know that _we_ know that the colder and more objective you appear on the outside, the more pain you’re feeling on the inside.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she insisted, voice a little more strained under the undisguised frustration and anger at being ganged up on.

There was nothing Sweets wanted to do more in that moment than push. He wanted to pin her down and force her to take that last step and confront her emotional vulnerability… but Sweets was more experienced than that. Not only had his time at the BAU given him practice at learning when to push and when to back off with some of the most dangerous people around, but his time as a therapist had given him a new point of reference for how to use that to help people— not just stop them. And this… Well, there was nothing more Sweets could do.

Dr. Brennan had shut down completely, and wouldn’t be listening to anything he said for some time now. Even if he _did_ get her to listen and manage to make that progress he so desperately wanted to make, he knew this wasn’t the time. Her father was going to trial, and she was going to be fighting against every single one of her friends to keep him out of jail.

She didn’t need him to push; the trial would stress her more than enough on its own.

After a moment of slightly awkward silence as the therapist and scientist stared at each other across the table, Booth stood abruptly, effectively cutting the moment short. “Well, Sweets, we should get going,” he announced, giving them both a brief smile as Brennan eagerly followed his lead and stood to leave.

They parted with brief goodbyes and Sweets turned slightly to observe their retreating backs thoughtfully. They’d make it through the trial— Sweets had faith in that now—but there was _no way_ he was willing to let them go.

He _really_ wanted to see what they could become…

* * *

Just a few days later, the trial and the problematic partner pair were the furthest things from Sweets mind. Jessica was on the other side of the country—in LA—for a writer’s conference of some variety and, with their family’s ever so splendid luck, Hotch and the BAU team had been called out to Miami to deal with a conman turned killer. This meant wonderful little Jack would be stuck with Lance.

Now, normally Sweets would simply talk to the parents of Jack’s close friends, who were on the approved pick up list for expressly this reason, and ask them to pick Jack up from school with their own son and watch him until Sweets was done with his day. But, of course, not only did the four-year-old _have the day off_ , but Jack’s friend and friend’s family were out of town.

He and Aaron had gotten word of it on Monday and had arranged for Jack to stay with a sitter, who JJ and Will occasionally used, for the day. It had been a mild nightmare to work out, but Sweets had gone to work content in the knowledge that Jack was being well cared for and that he had Aaron for backup.

That hadn’t lasted long.

Around nine in the morning, while Sweets was in the middle of a session, Hotch had texted to give him the heads up on their case. Sweets had acknowledged it and gone on with his day.

At 11:03, just after his last appointment before lunch, he received a panicked call from the sitter, Sarah. She had a family emergency and needed to take the first flight out of DC.

By 11:10, Sweets had calmed down the poor woman and given her clear instructions on coming to the FBI Hoover Building before tracking down his supervisor and explaining the situation. She was, thankfully, very understanding.

At 11:38, Sweets had exhausted the majority of his options, talking to both of their backup sitters and all six of their background-checked neighbors. No one was available. It was just their luck.

At his wits end, he called Will. The detective was a god-send.

“Henry’s with m’ neighbor,” the Cajun explained. “I could ask ‘er ta pick Jack up fer the rest of t’day,” he offered.

Sweets could have wept in relief.

A few minutes later, the therapist was making his way into the lobby and past security. He was about halfway across the room when he spotted the frantic sitter clutching Jack to her chest, almost dashing to the check-in desk. He waved her down and Jack was summarily passed off. She left in a blur.

Hand-in-hand, the four-year-old and his uncle watched her go. Jack’s eyes were huge when he turned to look up at Sweets. “Whoa,” he summed up the last hour succinctly.

Grinning down at him, Sweets chuckled, “You got that right, buddy.” Hefting the boy up onto his hip, he moved to the counter and quickly got his nephew a visitor’s badge. Jack was absolutely delighted by the little piece of plastic, and kept staring at it in delight as they went through security and moved towards the elevators.

“So, you’re going to hang out with me for a bit, Jack,” Lance started. Jack beamed even brighter as he stared at the badge before quickly wiping it off his face and looking up at his uncle with the biggest set of puppy dog eyes he could muster.

“Can I see your office, Uncle Lance?” the boy pleaded, face as stoic as his father’s resting expression.

Lance couldn’t help chuckling and ruffling his hair a little as they came to a stop in front of the elevators and he put the boy back onto his own two feet. He decided to ignore the button to call the elevator for the moment and directed all of his attention on his nephew. “Sure,” he agreed easily, smiling as Jack beamed up at him, “But after a bit, Henry and his sitter are going to come pick you up for the rest of the day.”

The four-year-old’s expression fell slightly, “I can’t stay?”

“I still need to work today, little man,” Sweets reminded him gently, “But you’ll get to hang out with Henry and after I’m done I’ll come right over and pick you up.”

“Promise?” Jack peered into his uncle’s face, as though checking for sincerity.

“Promise,” Lance smiled, reassuring him, “We can even go get ice cream.”

All worries forgotten, Jack let out a muted squeal of excitement and plastered himself to Sweets’ leg. Still smiling fondly down at him, the therapist dropped a hand to rest in his hair.

“Sweets?” a voice broke through their quiet moment, coming from the direction of security.

Careful not to dislodge his nephew, Sweets turned to look over his shoulder. There, clearing security and headed to the elevators (and thus them) was Booth. As he approached, Sweets gave him a warm smile, “Agent Booth. How are you?”

“Eh, I’m doing alright,” he gave a slight shrug, glancing at Jack, who was now hiding behind his uncle. “Maybe a little bored. How are you?”

Sweets echoed his shrug, “Busy. Are you stuck preparing for the trial?”

“Yup,” Booth confirmed ruefully. “Who’s your friend here?”

Without realizing it, a fond smile crossed his face once more, “This is my nephew, Jack.” He looked down and patted the boy’s shoulder, “Jack, this is Agent Booth— I work with him.”

The four-year-old gave a shy little wave, ducking his head slightly, still plastered to Sweets’ side. A grin broke out across Booth’s face as he waved back, “Hey there, Jack.”

Jack ducked his head again before looking up at Lance, “Do you work with him like Dad works with Aunt JJ and Uncle Derek and Uncle Spencer and—”

Lance let out a chuckle and interrupted his nephew, “Not quite, buddy. Your dad is really close to his team; I mostly consult for Agent Booth.”

Jack’s face scrunched up a little. “Consult,” he repeated, “That means help, right?”

“Yeah,” the therapist beamed proudly at the little boy, “That’s right.”

 “Oh man,” Booth broke into the conversation, “You seem like a smart one, Jack.”

Jack glanced at Booth and blushed, ducking his head again.

“What brings you to the FBI?” Booth asked, addressing the shy boy.

The four-year-old glanced briefly up at his uncle, who nodded encouragingly, before turning his attention to the agent, “I don’t have school and Aunt Jess is on a trip and Daddy just left, so I was with Miss Sarah, but she had to fly away to be with her family so I’m with Uncle Lance until Henry and his sitter can pick me up.”

Booth blinked a little as he processed the long-winded explanation, “I see. Well, at least you get to see where you uncle works, right?”

“Right!” Jack agreed, nodding enthusiastically.

Just then the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. The two adults looked up before starting to move into the little room. Sweets rested a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, guiding him to move as well, “Come on, Jack, let’s show you my office before you have to leave.”

The boy gave a happy little bounce as he maneuvered himself between Sweets and Booth, having obvious warmed up to the agent some already. “Is it like Aunt Pen’s office?”

Sweets smiled down at his enthusiastic nephew once again. “No, Jack,” he chuckled, “Penelope’s office is much more _colorful_.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Booth look up sharply from Jack, staring at Sweets as though something was dawning on him.

For the briefest second, Lance felt like something had changed, but then Booth looked back down at Jack and asked him to describe his Aunt Pen’s office. Jack was nearly glowing as he responded.

Sweets found himself almost thankful that nothing had worked out today; today should have been average, but instead he got to spend his lunch break with his nephew and watch the precocious boy wrap one of his uncle’s favorite individuals around his finger. The therapist had a headache and was missing out on actually _eating_ , but…

Lance smiled to himself, _Totally worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think. Feedback and ideas are always welcome ;)  
> On different note, I need your opinions: should I make this into a series or keep it in one mega-story? If I should split it, should I do it by my story arcs or by season (according to Bones)?  
> (And, speaking of _my_ story arcs, I should warn you all the plot is going to start picking up in the next chapter.)  
>  Thank you-- every single wonderful one of you-- for reading this!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance finds new friends and writes a book. Penelope has something important to say...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is here! This is the last one set during Verdict in the Story. There are pieces of conversations from the episode. Public Enemy is mentioned. Warning: the plot has arrived. I hope y'all have enjoyed how nice I've been to Lance lately, cause that's gonna change....  
> I have the next two chapters outlined. No promises, but I may have the next one done in a week or so.

The following week, bright and early on Monday, Sweets was dragging himself into the conference room on Agent Booth’s floor of the Hoover Building. Even from halfway across the quiet bullpen, Sweets could already see the group in the conference room—it was everyone from the Jeffersonian, save Brennan, with the addition of Caroline Julian. Booth was nowhere in sight. For some reason this fact left him slightly unsettled; he may not be close to Booth or Brennan, but he knew them a _lot_ more than these scientists. He had only met the group a few times, and only in reference to the Gormogon murders.

And so, it was with a slight sense of trepidation that the therapist entered the room and greeted the group. He needn’t have worried, however; as soon as he greeted the room at large, Jack Hodgins gave him a friendly smile and offered his hand, “Hey, it’s Sweets, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” the therapist returned the smile and the handshake, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Hodgins.”

“Oh!” Angela Montenegro exclaimed from beside the entomologist, “You’re the therapist Brennan was always complaining about.” Lance shifted and nodded slightly awkwardly, confirming her assumptions.

Camille Saroyan materialized at the artist’s side, giving her a slightly reproachful look and interjecting purposefully, “You’ve _also_ been helping with the Gormogon case.” She turned her attention to him and smiled, “Glad you could make it, Dr. Sweets.”

“Thank you, Dr. Saroyan,” Lance smiled back, “I hope I’m able to help with the case.”

“You sure will, chér,” Ms. Julian announced in a way that made it halfway between a reassurance and a threat, an amused look plastered across her face as she leant with both hands against the chair at the head of the table.

Sweets maintained that she was absolutely terrifying.

“Ah,” Sweets moved around the table to take a chair, “Where’s Agent Booth?”

“He got caught in a traffic jam,” Dr. Saroyan answered as she settled into a seat beside him, “He’s on his way.”

After a beat of slightly awkward silence, Zack Addy shifted in his seat—which he hadn’t left earlier, “Dr. Sweets, if you don’t mind me asking, what are your degrees?”

“Oh, uh,” Sweets blinked once, adjusting to the sudden question, “Well, I received my undergraduate pysch degree from the University of Toronto, my master’s degree in abnormal psychology from Temple University, my doctorate in clinical psychology from the University of Pennsylvania, and my doctorate in behavioral analysis from Columbia University.”

“Wow,” Angela was staring at him a little, “How old are you again?”

Sweets opened his mouth to respond, but Ms. Julian beat him to it, “Dr. Sweets was 21 when he graduated with his last degree and entered the FBI Academy.” She smirked across the table at him, “Isn’t that right, chérie?”

As all the Jeffersonian employees turned stunned expressions on him, Sweets couldn’t do much more than blush.

“Nice,” Hodgins grinned at him. The sentiment was quickly echoed.

As Angela and Dr. Saroyan commented on his hidden accomplishments, Sweets caught sight of Agent Booth through the window of the conference room. He stepped through the door just as Zack jumped in, “It is rather impressive, although I am still not convinced of the validity or usefulness of behavioral science.”

Skirting the end of the table, Booth chuckled, “You sound just like Bones there, Zack.”

Zack looked over his shoulder at the agent, “In my experience Dr. Brennan is usually correct.”

“I’m afraid that in this case she isn’t, Dr. Addy,” Lance couldn’t resist jumping in; he may not be able to convince Brennan, but he may be able to convince Zack, “There are numerous cases that are solved every year with the help of profiling. For example, the team with the highest close rate in the FBI right now is the primary BAU team, with the two secondary teams coming in third and fourth respectively.” The profiler turned therapist was pleased to observe the thoughtful look on the young doctor’s face (although he _was_ older that Sweets himself).

“Who comes in second?” Camille turned to give him a curious look.

Sweets gave her a smile, “The Jeffersonian-FBI Investigative Taskforce; you.”

Proud smiles flitted across each of their faces. It was always good to hear you were making a difference; it had been one of Sweets’ favorite parts of working at the BAU.

“So, Sweets,” Booth clapped his hands together, “You think you’re ready for your first trial?”

For a split second, Sweets blinked in confusion at him. “Oh, no,” he chuckled a little, “Sorry, this isn’t my first trial.”

Booth’s eyebrows shot up, “Really?”

Lance just shrugged, “It _is_ my first trial as the _only_ expert phycological witness, but I’ve testified many times in the past.”

Booth gave him a piercing look that reminded the therapist of the look he had given him over Jack’s head just a few days earlier. A second later, he shook whatever he had been thinking away and moved to lean against the wall behind the empty seat beside Sweets.

“Speaking of first trials,” Ms. Julian shook her finger a little at him, as she settled into her chair “Make sure you stick to fully grown up words, alright chér? I’m not afraid to tattle to darling Aaron.”

Lance took a moment to examine the prosecutor’s face, taking note of the poorly concealed amusement behind the threat. Really, she was a lot like Aaron in that respect—she was hard to read, but wasn’t nearly as serious as she looked. With that in mind, he responded as though it was Hotch who had just threatened him, “Now that’s just mean.”

Caroline gave him a delighted little smile and pseudo-leer, surprising several individuals, before sobering and getting down to business, “Enough of that. We’ve got a case to prepare for. Now, I’m going to say to you what I always say to you before a trial, because this one is no different than any other trial.”

“You’ve never said that before,” Zack pointed out.

“What?” the prosecutor gave the forensic anthropologist an unimpressed look.

“You’ve never told us that a trial is no different from any other trial,” Hodgins agreed.

Zack nodded, finishing the idea, “Which suggests this one _is_ different.”

Sweets found himself relaxing amongst the group as the banter was thrown back and forth and orders were given to each member of the prosecution team. Sometimes he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He already had a team who was like a family to him and… the more he spent around _this_ team, the more he could see himself finding something similar here as well.

Following the meeting, Lance was in a good mood all day; not even Angela refusing to testify put a damper on his happiness. And honestly… he sort of agreed with her.

If the trial was going to be _anything_ , it would be interesting. _That_ ’s for sure.

* * *

 

It was the middle of the second day of the trial, and everything was going splendidly. While Booth was still, well, _Booth_ and could be found with Brennan more often than not (even though they weren’t supposed to be socializing), the rest of the prosecution team seemed to have adopted Sweets. He had interacted with each of them sporadically on the Gormogon case, but his primary source of contact had always been Booth. Now, though, it was usually the four of them—Camille, Zack, Hodgins, and himself—spending time together during recesses, eating lunch together, talking, joking, laughing… It was giving him vivid flashbacks to his first few cases at the BAU, when the members of the team banded together despite having just lost Gideon and welcomed him into the group.

On top of the wonderful bonding he was enjoying with the other doctors, he was in a court room again. It wasn’t the most enjoyable place to be, but Lance had always been fascinated by law and truly enjoyed stretching his profiling muscles by testifying. And on top of _that_ , he had made a decision. It was a _big_ decision with the potential to bite him in the ass, but he was excited none the less.

He had just gotten off the phone with Rossi, who had given him a proverbial kick in the ass, and parted ways with the prosecution trio; he was now outside the courthouse searching for a particular pair. They hadn’t been anywhere he looked inside, so he was guessing they were visiting the coffee cart outside on the street. Sure enough, he found Brennan and Booth siting side by side sipping coffee on a bench. He immediately made a beeline for them, barely coming to a stop before launching into his spiel, “I’m writing a book, taking a clinical approach to efficacy and focused outcomes. You shouldn’t work well together but you do; I’d like to study it further.”

Sweets paused, giving them a chance to react while sitting on the edge of his metaphorical seat. He wished he knew how it was going to go— how they were going to react —but the truth was the pair was just a tad too unpredictable at times.

After that split second of staring in surprise at Sweets, Booth blinked and turned to Brennan, “I don’t get it.”

“He wants to study us,” the anthropologist translated succinctly, brows furrowed against the sun. At least, he was fairly certain it was against the sun and not in annoyance or anger—although that was a distinct possibility.

“A session once a week, just like before I cleared your partnership,” Lance jumped in. That wasn’t all he was planning on offering, but he knew the pair well enough to hold his cards close to his chest in the beginning.

A smile that was vaguely mischievous crossed Booth’s face. “Now why would we want to do that?” he turned to his partner once again, completely ignoring Sweets.

“I can’t think of a good reason,” Brennan smiled back, similarly ignoring the therapist.

“Ok, see,” Sweets jumped in again, pointing between them for emphasis, “that thing that you do when you talk to each other while excluding the third party, in this case me? It’s an adaptive mechanism for disparate entities to bond together, however temporarily, while simultaneously isolating and exposing the subject of the conversation.” It was a technique that the pair used frequently, both in interrogations and day-to-day life. It was a symptom of their improbable yet powerful partnership.

“Isolating and exposing, huh?” Booth broke script to grin up at the profiler.

Sweets let out an exasperated huff and felt his cheeks heat slightly, “You know what I meant.”

Still grinning at the therapist, the agent lent towards Brennan, “What d’ya think, Bones?”

“Well,” she frowned slightly, “the idea is quite ludicrous in several respects, but anthropologically speaking—”

“About the offer, Bones,” Booth turned to look at her more directly, “Not the mumbo-jumbo.”

“Agent Booth!” Lance gave him an affronted look. There was _no way_ psychology was _mumbo-jumbo_! “I can assure you that profiling is a—”

“Aha!” he exclaimed, pointing up at the startled therapist, “You _are_ a profiler.”

Lance blinked in surprise at him and attempted to formulate a response, but before he could Brennan took the words out of his mouth. “Yes, Booth,” she said almost patiently, eyebrows furrowed, “He’s said so since our very first session with him. That’s why you brought him that time capsule case all those months ago.”

“That’s not what I mean,” the agent was still grinning, “I _mean_ he was a profiler _before_ he was a therapist.” He looked up at Sweets again, “You worked for the BAU, didn’t you?”

Lance found himself rendered speechless. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he had worked for the BAU—quite a few people knew his history and experience—but everyone who did know also knew why he left and respected the dangers that could arise from broadcasting his past. Besides that, well, he just didn’t like talking about it. So… how the hell had Booth figured it out?

Something must have shown on his face because Booth chuckled a little and explained, “I figured it out on Monday, after the prosecution met. I didn’t hear all of it, but I’m pretty sure Caroline said something about you joining the Academy—which non-agents don’t need to do—and you sounded awfully proud when you were talking about the BAU’s close rate. It took me a little, but I started to piece it together.”

Lance probably would have continued to stare, but Brennan, who had been giving him a piercing look since Booth mentioned the BAU, broke through his growing stupor. “You’re an agent?”

He blinked at her for a split second before shrugging, “Not an active one.” He gave the pair a nervous smile, “You could say I’ve been chained to a desk early.” This really had _not_ been his plan when he came seeking them out.

“Why?” Brennan asked in that horribly innocent and unintentionally insensitive way.

“It’s a long story,” Lance settled for shrugging and deflecting.

“We do have time right now,” she pointed out. He floundered for a second that felt like an eternity before Booth jumped in, making him almost sigh in relief.

“Whoa there, Bones,” the agent stalled her, “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it.” Brennan turned her curious gaze to her partner, so he continued, “Tell you what, why don’t we make a deal with him where we allow him to study us and in return he gives us phycological profiling on demand.” Brennan started to protest, so Booth continued, “It’ll give us more time to quiz him.”

Brennan made a considering noise, as though weighing her options, “I don’t know if that’s worth it; you like that sort of thing, but it’s just,” she mimicked Booth from earlier, “mumbo-jumbo.”

“Still not mumbo-jumbo,” Sweets grumbled to himself.

The agent let out a vaguely frustrated sound, “C’mon, Bones! He’s from the _BAU_!”

“I was unaware you were so fond of a unit that concentrates all its efforts on the pursuit of circumstantial evidence,” she raised her eyebrows at him.

“It’s not circumstantial,” Sweets protested a little louder this time.

Booth sighed, but his frustrated expression was quickly wiped away under the same mischievous smile he had held at the beginning of the conversation, “Or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit he likes us.”

Brennan paused as she opened her mouth, no doubt expecting to continue the argument, but her partner’s comment caught her off guard. A vaguely delighted smile crossed her face as she turned her gaze back to Sweets, “Do you _like_ us?”

Oh, for _crying out loud_! Sweets let out a disbelieving huff. _They’re impossible_ , he thought, though he quickly revised it as the two adults started chanting in sing-song voices, _No, they’re just like children_. Why did he want to put up with these two once a week again?

“Ok, you know what?” he threw his hand in the air, “I regret I ever made the offer. I take it back; forget it.” Still in a huff, he stormed off. Even as he did so, he began to regret it. Yes, they were impossible and infuriating and made him want to slam his head against the wall half of the time, but they were extraordinary and fascinating for the same reasons. He really _did_ want to study them more, _and_ help with their cases, and, honestly… he did like them— he wanted to get to know them better.

But, as he continued back into the courthouse, he realized me may have done the best thing he could to get what he wanted with the agent-anthropologist pair; they’d need to talk to each other without an audience before they could agree on a response. Direct confrontation never seemed to work that well with them.

He’d hold out hope and focus on the trial for now. At the very least, he’d avoid talking to Rossi until he knew for sure what was going on. Dave could be _scary_.

* * *

The evening of the trial’s final day, Sweets was walking on sunshine—metaphorically, of course; the sun was almost completely gone by this point. The red and orange hues cast cross the Reflecting Pool made it look as though it was made of liquid fire. But, anyway… Sweets was having a great day.

The prosecution had lost the trial, yes, but it had gone the way he had secretly hoped. He was thrilled Dr. Brennan would be able to get to know her father, to spend time with him doing _normal_ things rather than always visiting him behind bars. Sweets didn’t feel too bad Max Keenan had gotten off scotch-free; he wouldn’t be a danger to the public, just so long as his children stayed safe.

After the trial, Booth had cornered him to tell him he and Brennan were willing to be studied in exchange for profiling. As that was the exchange Sweets had been planning on offering from the beginning, it was a win-win in his mind. Rossi had been both pleased and smug when Lance had shared the news. He reportedly also welcomed the distraction from the team’s latest case (a terrorist-like random killer who shared a great deal of his pathology with a serial arsonist), and promised to share the news with the others.

After the case, Jessica and Jack and surprised him and took him out for ice cream (it was all Jack’s idea and he made sure his uncle knew it). It had been a loud and sticky affair, full of laughter and good spirits. Jessica shared her good news as well; her latest book had gotten published.

Once they had finished, they had taken the subway to the National Mall. When Jack had been engrossed in watching a performer as they waited for the train to arrive, Jessica had leaned over to Sweets and whispered, “We need to burn all that sugar off _somehow_ —he’ll never sleep like this!”

Jessica had been quite right. Jack was currently a hyper ball of energy racing up and down the steps of the Lincoln monument, huffing excitedly and imitating his favorite cartoon character all the way. Every time he circled back to his aunt and uncle, who were following at a much more sedate pace, he would grab Jess’s hand and haul her up a couple steps before dashing off ahead of them again.

As Jess stumbled after the most recent pull, she gave Lance a mischievous look over her shoulder. He raised his eyebrows in response, and she simply grinned wider and turned back towards the hyper blur hurling towards her. When he came within reach, Jessica scooped her nephew up and blew a giant raspberry onto his stomach. Jack let out a delighted squeal and attempted to wriggle away from his aunt. Lance felt his face nearly split open with the force of his smile as Jess took another deep breath and gave the giggling boy another.

“Uncle Lance!” Jack cried desperately after a moment, “Make her stop!!!”

Sweets just chuckled and shook his head mock-seriously at him, “And face Aunt Jessica? I’m not _that_ brave, buddy! You’re on your own.”

“Nooooo!” he squealed, giggling madly, “Save me!”

Jessica, helpless to withstand the sight of her cackling prisoner and grinning friend, broke down laughing as she dropped down onto the steps, Jack still clutched to her chest. The boy let out a squeal of surprise before wriggling around just enough to stick his fingers into Jess’s armpits. It was her turn to squeal.

Lance was debating which side he should join in on when his phone cut through the laughter, vibrating in his pocket. After a moment of fumbling, he managed to get the device out. “Dr. Sweets,” he answered absently, still smiling at the scene before him.

“Oh, thank god,” a familiar voice exploded across the line, “Lancelot! You’re ok!”

Fully focused on the call now, Sweets frowned in confusion, “Yeah, Pen, I’m fine… What’s wrong? Is the team ok?

“We’re fine, Junior, honest. We just caught the guy,” she let out in a rush.

“What’s wrong then?” he frowned worriedly into space.

On the other end, the hacker sighed, “Lance…”

“Penelope, c’mon,” he entreated.

“The DC police department found a body— I mean, _Will_ found a body today,” she started.

“Is _he_ ok?” Sweets’ frowned deepened.

“He’s fine,” the hacker quickly reassured him before taking a deep breath. “But, Lance… this body has all the signs…” she trailed off again.

“ _Penelope_ ,” he stressed, his frustration growing.

“It,” she started before exploding in a rush, “It’s the Ghost.”

Sweets felt as though the world had been yanked out from underneath him. His team always avoided using that name with him—they knew how it affected him—but it was the fastest way to communicate the issue. To communicate the gravity of the situation. And that gravity had his breath catching and his legs wavering. The world seemed to stop, and he was frozen in a moment of utter terror. It was silent but for the blood rushing in his ears and the echo of half-remembered screams. His throat ached, his eyes stung, and he couldn’t _breathe_ … all he could smell was iron. Iron and blood and rust and _pain_.

He was vaguely aware of sitting heavily onto the steps, reaching blindly behind himself with one hand to stop from falling further. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and a concerned voice called his name, followed by another. Neither registered until a third voice broke through. “Uncle Lance? Uncle Lance, are you ok?”

“Jack!” came the more distant, distorted call through the phone.

Although he couldn’t see anything, Sweets didn’t resist as little hand relieved him of his phone. A moment later he spoke, “Auntie Pen?” There was a pause, then, “Yeah, he is. Is Daddy ok?” Another pause.

 _In and out_ , Sweets told himself, forcing himself to breathe, to focus on the voice and push the memories to the side. _Not real. Not there. He’s_ not _here_.

 Jack’s voice came again, “Aunt Jess is here.” Then, “Ok.”

Another voice came ( _Jess_ , the part of his mind that was fully rational whispered, _That’s Jessica_ ). It was full of panic and a touch of fear, “Penelope, what’s going on?!”

Sweets forced himself to open his stinging eyes. There, right in front of his nose was his wonderful, beautiful, brilliant nephew. Jack’s brow was furrowed in concern. Lance gave him a brief forced smile, allowing the presence of his nephew in his lap to ground him, before glancing up just in time to see all the blood seep out of Jessica’s face.

The writer blinked rapidly a few times, blond curls bouncing around her face, and swallowed hard, “I see. Is he in DC now?” Whatever Penelope said seemed to firm her resolve; she nodded once, beginning to regain her color, “I’ll make sure of it.”

Still slightly detached from reality, but with his panic attack stemmed, the therapist watched as his friend and pseudo-sister hung up. He watched as she knelt to join Jack at his side, as she leant forward and wrapped him up as a hug, Jack firmly sandwiched in the middle. He felt Jack wriggle a bit, small hands fisting in his uncle’s shirt. He felt his stinging eyes flow over.

There, wrapped in two of the people he loved most in this world, Lance cried. He wept in anguish of memories, in the fear of what may come. He wept in grief.

He had forgotten.

 _How_ had he forgotten? How could he have _ever_ forgotten what he had survived, who had _allowed_ him to survive? How could he have ever believed _he_ would let him go?

Lance loved his life. He loved his job, his family, his friends. For the past month or so, he had been completely at peace. He had healed. He had moved on…. He had _forgotten_ and now he could do nothing _but_ remember.

The Ghost was in DC. He was _here_ , and there was only one reason for that; he was here for Lance. He wasn’t done—he had warned him! How could he have _forgotten_?

And so, he grieved. In the fading light, on the steps of the Lincoln monument, he soaked Jessica’s shirt with tears and clutched Jack to his chest and grieved for what he would lose.

( _Don’t forget you’re mine, boy. I’m not done with you yet._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo? How mad are you?  
> I mean... at least Booth is connecting the dots, yeah?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does someone live knowing their own personal hell is out there, alive, wandering the streets... just waiting to find them once again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode grew into a two-parter. Oops. The plot is picking up some, though, so I think it's worth it.  
> This is set during Wannabe in the Weeds. I did use some (modified) dialogue from the episode. There is no corresponding Criminal Minds episode for this chapter.  
> Sorry for the wait y'all! Thank you for your patience and your incredible support. I live for your comments!!!!

The weekend following the trial and the discovery of the body that—no. Nope. Sweets refused to think about it. Anyway, that weekend was spent in the near constant company of his friends and family. He was rarely more than a few rooms away from _someone_. Contrary to what he would have expected, he didn’t feel stifled by it. Rather… it was comforting. Whenever he started to sink into the horrifying memories, there was someone there to pull him out. It had been nice. It would have been better if he hadn’t spent the entire weekend dreading going to work alone.

On Monday morning, however, he got a surprise when JJ showed up at his front door. She informed him with a soft smile and a hot cup of coffee that she had been asked to speak to the media liaisons located out of the Hoover building. She was driving with him—no arguments. Sweets thought it was far more likely that JJ had found an excuse to be in the Hoover building in case he needed her. But… he couldn’t bring himself to protest.

The dark cloud that had been hanging over his head all weekend disappeared. As JJ ushered him into her car, regaled him with the sordid trials of achieving coffee this morning, and prodded him out of his fugue, Sweets couldn’t help but compare the calm collected blond to a ray of sunshine. It was far easier that the therapist has expected to enter the building and make his way to his office with JJ at his side, chattering about Henry. Apparently, he wouldn’t shut up about the day he got to spend with Jack when all of Sweets’ backup plans had fallen through.

“I swear,” she laughed a bit as they stepped out of the elevator on Lance’s floor, “All Will and I hear about lately is ‘Jack this’ and ‘Jack that’! It’s absolutely _adorable_ , but…” she gave him a grin as she opened the door to the therapist-designated half of the floor, “it’s _exhausting_.”

“It’s better than it could be,” Lance offered with a grin of his own.

“Oh, really?” JJ raised her eyebrows playfully, “How could it be worse?”

Sweets slowed to a stop in the hallway near his office, JJ following suit as they moved to the side to let a group past. He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was or who was around him (if he did he’d start getting paranoid and start seeing _him_ everywhere); all of his focus was on JJ and her smile and their shared love for two of the most wonderful boys in existence. He simply knew he was near his office because he’d walked this path hundreds of times.

“Well,” he ventured, “Just imagine how much he’ll have to share when Jack gets his way with the sleepover he’s been lobbying for.”

“Oh no, really?” JJ looked at him earnestly for a moment before shaking her head and gazing mournfully down at her mostly empty coffee cup. She gave a dramatic sigh, “There go my hopes and dreams.”

He couldn’t resist letting out a small laugh at that, “Emily has rubbed off on you _so_ much.”

JJ gave him a mock offended look, “I’ll have you know, Junior, that’s what gal pals are for!”

“Aaaaand there’s Penelope,” he grinned at her again.

She just chuckled and shook her head, “Yeah, you’re right. They’re a terrible influence.”

After a beat of silence, someone cleared their throat from a few feet away. Lance looked up in surprise to find none other than Booth standing outside his office door. He looked decidedly, uncomfortable, like someone who had just overheard a conversation they figured they shouldn’t have. He was subtly shifting from foot to foot and was holding a FBI branded manila folder just a touch too tight.

“Agent Booth,” Sweets greeted him with a smile, hoping to dispel any misguided guilt the agent may have—after all, they had been conducting the conversation in public where anyone could hear.

“Hey, Sweets,” he returned the smile easily, “Who’s your friend?”

JJ smiled and answered for herself, stepping forward and offering her hand, “SSA Jennifer Jareau, media liaison with the BAU. I’m here to lecture at a supplemental training course today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Booth accepted the handshake, “I’m Special Agent Seeley Booth—I work with the Jeffersonian.”

“With Dr. Brennan, right?” JJ glanced back at Sweets, “You’re the agent Lance has been consulting with.”

“That’s me,” the agent agreed, though he glanced between the two of them with a touch of confusion. After a beat of silence, he asked, “Did you work with Sweets when he was with the BAU?”

Suddenly extremely uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing in the hallway, and spotting a few people headed in their direction down the hall, Sweets pushed past Booth to open his office, “Alright, lets move this out of the hall.”

The two agents followed his lead easily, but as soon as the door was shut behind them, JJ picked up the conversation, “Yes, I did. He’s like family—the whole team is.”

“Really? That’s nice.” Sweets could hear the smile in Booth’s voice, even as he moved to place his stuff at his desk.

“It is,” she agreed. After a slightly awkward pause, she changed the subject, “You work with homicides, right?”

“Yeah,” Booth agreed before pausing and amending, “Well, it’s more like I work any federal jurisdiction case that could use Bones’ expertise.”

Sweets had finished unpacking his stuff and turned around in time to see the media liaison’s face scrunch up in confusion. “Bones?” JJ asked curiously.

Booth opened his mouth to answer, but Lance cut in first, “Dr. Brennan. ‘Bones’ is a term of endearment from Agent Booth.”

The agent scowled and turned to give him an incredulous look, “A ‘term of endearment’? Really, Sweets?”

JJ just chuckled, “Trust me, Agent Booth, our team has all sorts of ‘endearing’ nicknames. ‘Bones’ is _tame_ compared to some of the terms we use.”

“And by ‘we’ you mean Penelope and Derek,” Sweets rolled his eyes a little at her before turning to Booth, “You met Pen; she did that pottery class with us a few months back.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember her,” the agent gave a slightly thoughtful frown. “She was really… energetic.”

“That’s an understatement,” Lance snorted. For a moment, the three just smiled, recalling their personal interactions with the bubbly tech analyst.

“Alright, well,” JJ cut in to the silence, “I should get going if I want to have some time to set up before my first group.” A cold feeling started to seep into Sweets’ bones as he realized he was going to have to continue his day as normal without JJ there acting as his personal ray of sunshine. He hadn’t thought this would be that hard— he wasn’t in any danger here! —but that thought was almost crippling. JJ, bless her, seemed to pick up on his silently growing distress; she smiled warmly at Sweets and pulled him into a hug, silently saying all the things she couldn’t in front of Booth. “I expect you to eat lunch with me, understand?”

“Of course, JJ,” Lance chuckled a little despite himself, warmth seeping back in and keeping the chill at bay… at least for now.

“And you should expect a call from Garcia later,” she added as she retrieved her bag and moved towards the door, “And possibly Morgan.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he admitted easily, a grin suffusing his face and the warm sensation spreading. There JJ was, casually throwing out inane comments that hinted at what she really meant, expertly comforting him under the nose of a coworker. It was wonderful.

‘Penelope and Derek are beside themselves with worry,’ is what she meant to say, ‘Just like the rest of us, but they’re _them_ , so they’re going to call. I didn’t talk to them, but we both know it’s a given.’ JJ paused at the door, calling out a goodbye to Booth and giving Lance one last smile: ‘We care about you, Sweets, and we’re all there for you. Every step of the way.’

Once the blonde had disappeared, Booth held out the manila folder he was still carrying to Sweets, “By the way, we have a case. A body was discovered late last night, or, well, early this morning. We don’t know much yet, but I figured it’d be best to get you up to speed right away.”

Sweets blinked a bit in surprise as he accepted the folder, thoroughly distracted from his prior fears. Normally the agent didn’t come to him until they had a suspect or desperately needed the help. _Maybe this whole arrangement is going to work out better than I thought_ , he mused as absently flipped through the papers, “Thanks, Booth.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” he responded a little awkwardly, “I’ll probably be asking for your help with an interview or two later today.”

“Ok,” the profiler nodded a bit, mostly to himself, “Sounds good.” He paused in his absent flipping, eyeing a slightly over exposed picture of the dump site. It was field. Tall concealing grass, but not all that remote. It wasn’t that well thought-out, if the goal was to prevent discovery of the body…

“Are you ok, Sweets?” Booth asked suddenly, breaking through his thoughts.

Sweets looked up and blinked a bit at him. “Yes,” he answered a little hesitantly, “I’m fine.” Surely Booth couldn’t know about… _that_.

“Alright,” he accepted the answer, “You just seem a little preoccupied… and you haven’t psychoanalyzed me at all yet.”

Lance let out a small snort despite himself, “Psychoanalyzed?”

Booth let out a frustrated huff, “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Lance looked back down at the folder, but this time he wasn’t contemplating the contents. Privately, and to his family, Sweets could admit that he was at his wit’s end. He was a nervous wreck. He was terrified and paranoid, and his flashbacks and panic attacks had returned in full force. He had endured more attacks over the weekend than he had in months.

Now… in his day to day routine, he didn’t think he’d have much trouble. When he was with a patient, helping them, all of his own issues took a back seat; he had never gotten a panic attack while in the presence of a patient. But Booth and Brennan? They weren’t really patients anymore. Every conversation with them was like a mind game, a high-stakes puzzle… a constant struggle to pry information from them without revealing something he didn’t want to share. Booth talking about psychoanalysis just reminded him of their upcoming meeting and his utter unpreparedness for it. Until he got used to the idea of _him_ being back, Sweets wasn’t going to be up to par.

And so, he made a split-second decision, “Speaking of that, I need to cancel our meeting tomorrow at four.” He glanced up at Booth to find the agent frowning worriedly at him, but did his best to ignore it, “Something came up. Can you let Dr. Brennan know we’ll start next week?”

Booth’s look was downright suspicious now, but he didn’t press the issue. “Sure, Sweets,” he gave a little shrug and started for the door, “I’ll call you when we have an interview.”

“Sure. Have a good day,” he called at the agents’ back as he disappeared through his office door. Booth waved a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement.

In the silence left in the agent’s wake, Sweets breathed a sigh of relief and braced himself for the long day ahead. He had the sinking feeling that living normally despite the knowledge of _him_ being back would be exponentially harder as the day progressed. He just had to last until he saw JJ again. He could to that.

One social hurdle done, an entire days’ worth left to go.

* * *

 

It had been a Monday from hell. Sweets had barely gotten through his day, with the normal consultations and evaluations, plus watching Booth interview a classic intimacy seeking stalker and doing his best to ignore the shadow looming over him… It was a wonder he didn’t have another panic attack until he was safely in the car home. Lance fully laid the credit at JJ’s feet; he wasn’t sure what would have happened if she hadn’t been nearby.

JJ had proceeded to drag him home with her, hovering over him when they stopped by his apartment so he could pick up an overnight bag. By the time the two arrived at the Jareau-LaMontagne household, Will had set up the guest room for him and Henry was bouncing off the walls. The evening was spent with Henry chattering at his Uncle Lance and, once he went to bed, Will regaling Sweets with outlandish tales. As he finally went to sleep, Sweets felt far more settled than he had since learning the news.

Tuesday was better. The case he was consulting on was quieter and his routine was perfectly normal—he could almost fool himself into thinking that nothing was different. There was no news from Pam (the victim’s stalker) as well, which was relieving, considering the fact that she had shifted her fixation to Booth. He did, of course, have a panic attack shortly after he got home, but that was quickly abated when Emily and Penelope showed up at his door with a bottle of red wine and a trashy comedy.

The next day was even easier—but spending the morning watching two of his favorite girls make pancakes would do that. He managed to drive himself to work, and didn’t even hesitate to walk into the building. He felt slightly less paranoid, and leagues more settled. For the majority of the morning he went about his normal schedule, dabbling in the case Booth had given him between sessions, but when he discovered the victim’s Myspace page, he decided to track Booth down and share his discovery. The agent wasn’t in the office (just his luck), but told him to meet him at the Jeffersonian. Once Sweets made sure he had the time, he drove over and found Brennan in her office. They settled down to watch Tommy sing while they waited for Booth.

For the first few minutes, they watched in silence and Sweets found himself—for once—not arguing with Dr. Brennan. It was such a foreign experience it made him… antsy. Unsettled. Brennan was, of course, completely unbothered. Once Booth breezed in, however, it quickly went back to normal; Lance made an observation and Brennan was left aghast at his statements.

She frowned deeply at him, annoyance coloring every word, “So this is all simple psychology to you?”

Sweets was unperturbed (and a little relieved at the return to normal). “People’s actions are motivated by their needs. When we discover out needs we discover who we are. So,” he shrugged a bit, “Yes. Everything can be analyzed using psychology.”

“No, society makes us who we are, not psychology,” Brennan protested, “Society shapes our actions. _Culture_ compels us, not some invisible _need_.”

“Ok, look,” Booth broke in before Sweets could respond, pulling the rolling chair the therapist was seated in away from his partner, “I’m gonna break you two up. You’re giving me a headache.” He pulled a new chair into the gap left between the pair and joined them in front of the computer. He shook his head a little, “If you keep this fighting up, no one’s getting desert.”

“We’re not fighting,” Sweets protested, even as he internally blinked in surprise at Booth’s random comment. The therapist turned to his fellow scientist, “It’s just a collegial debate, right?”

Brennan paused for a long telling moment before acquiescing, “Right.” After a beat, where Sweets smiled victoriously at Booth, she heaved a sigh and looked at her partner, “How’d it go with Pam last night?”

“Wait, you saw her again?” Sweets turned to the agent, incredulity written across every inch of his face. He had though he had been clear enough on Monday! Pam had _stalked_ Tommy—she displayed an extremely obsessive personality, with all the potential of turning violent. Booth had painted a figurative target on his back when he had tried to comfort the woman. Of _course_ she had shifted her attention to him!

“What’s the big deal, Sweets?” Booth huffed in exasperation, “She just gave me a pair of socks.”

Brennan let out a startling laugh, but Sweets was far too fixated on the issue to attempt to address her inappropriate humor. “The _big deal_ , Agent Booth?” the therapist almost snapped, “Pam Nunan is a classic manipulator and _extremely_ obsessive. When she perceives, however wrongly, that someone cares for her, she will do _anything_ to gain—or as she sees it, _retain—_ someone’s favor.” He lent forward slightly to point at the agent’s startled face, “Right now that’s just vulnerability followed by excessive generosity, but that could _easily_ change!”

“So I’ll mail the socks back,” he offered simply, still eyeing Sweets with raised eyebrows.

Sweets just shook his head, “I highly doubt that will produce a happy result; she could see it as a betrayal.”

Brennan scoffed loudly, “Yes, she’s very dangerous.”

He frowned deeply at the anthropologist, ire rising. Why couldn’t they see he just wanted to keep them _alive_? “She hasn’t done anything wrong, I’ll give you that,” he started, but quickly continued as he caught the triumphant looks cross the pair’s faces, “But you’re forgetting that I worked at the BAU. Not only have I studied _numerous_ stalker cases, I’ve also seen this type of personality up close and personal—and it’s not pretty.” He paused, regarding them seriously despite their palpable disbelief, “I don’t care if you believe me, Agent Booth, just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Brennan was still glowering at him, but Booth was eyeing him with open concern. Sure, he obviously still didn’t _believe_ him, but he was paying attention. That fact sent a wave of relief rushing through Sweets even before the agent nodded hesitantly, “Sure, Sweets. I’ll be careful.”

Lance was pretty sure he outright sighed at that, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. With everything that had been happening recently, with everything he feared would happen in the near future, he simply couldn’t bear the idea of losing another person.

The awkwardness lingered for a few minutes, but the trio was swiftly occupied with analyzing Tommy’s music and upcoming album. Sweets was nearly floored when Dr. Brennan willingly offered up personal information without a verbal torture session: she could sing. Apparently, she could sing very well, at that… at least according to her mother.

This of course devolved into an argument about motherly love and the truth of her childhood talent. Brennan firmly believed in her ability, but Booth was inclined to think Mrs. Brennan had done what any mother would— seen the best in their child. Sweets agreed with Booth, however he was willing to give Brennan the benefit of the doubt.

That is, of course, until she made an excuse not to sing _and_ insulted the science of psychology _again_. Honestly, Sweets should start some sort of tally.

A protest (meant for Brennan’s stubbornly deaf ears) was on the tip of his tongue when his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. Sweets jumped a bit and fished the offending piece of technology out. The screen announced a call from ‘Aaron’, and Lance’s stomach dropped. At the sight of his friend’s name, all of the things he had managed to forget in the past few minutes came rushing back. The call could be nothing—it was _probably_ nothing—but he had a very bad feeling about it…

“Aaron,” Booth broke through his thoughts, peering over his shoulder with no regard for privacy, “Didn’t Caroline mention him? He’s, what… Jack’s dad? Your brother?”

Why was Aaron calling? Did they have a case? That would be the most logical explanation, but Sweets had the feeling that wasn’t the case. His team would fight tooth and nail to stay local until they were certain he’d be safe. But if it wasn’t a case…. Was it Jack? No… It wasn’t even noon yet; he wasn’t picking up Jack for three hours. Was Jack hurt? Had _he_ gotten to Jack and—

“Sweets?” Brennan’s baffled voice jolted him back to reality.

Sweet’s eyes snapped up to the pair, who were both staring at him in confusion and concern, and attempted a normal smile (and failed spectacularly). “Sorry,” he stood up, already raising the phone to his ear, “I need to take this.” He promptly fled the room, avoiding eye contact as he went.

“Aaron?” he asked, a note of panic he couldn’t quite hide in his voice, “Is everything ok?” He glanced around the bustling lab, looking for a quiet location he could quickly retreat to, but spotted nothing.

“Lance,” the profiler breathed in relief, “It’s good to hear you’re alright.”

“Hotch?” he tried again, slightly more panicked, “What happened?” He gave up on trying to find privacy and settled for tucking himself in a corner near Brennan’s office.

“Nothing happened, I promise,” he insisted calmly, “There was just a development in the case and I was calling to check up on you.”

Sweets couldn’t breathe. “He killed someone else.” It wasn’t a question. It was the only possible ‘development’ Hotch could mean.

On the other end of the line, Hotch sighed, “Yes.”

Of course. Sweets leant heavily against the wall behind him, attempting desperately to hang onto his tenuous control. He really was back, and he was on a war path. There was no way Lance would be able to—

Wait.

 _It doesn’t make any sense. That’s not how he works… He doesn’t_ kill _, he tortures. For… for days and weeks and_ months _! This is too soon._ A sliver of impossible, futile hope snaked into his heart and he clung desperately to it, “But… It’s been four days. That—I mean… he doesn’t… So it can’t—”

“The last victim had been dead for two weeks,” the team leader revealed gently, “The new victim died less than a day ago. It’s him.” After an excruciating pause where Sweets forgot how to breathe, and the world started to fall around him, Aaron let out a pained, uncharacteristically emotional, “I’m sorry, Lance.”

“And he’s… he wants…” Sweets managed, unable to finish the thought.

“We think so,” Hotch agreed, voice still thick with emotion, “Look, Lance, I’m placing you under protective custody until we can track him down.”

“What?” he asked numbly, not comprehending.

“I think you need to go somewhere safe,” the profiler explained gently.

“No, no, no,” Sweets protested vehemently, “I can’t leave. Without the team, I—I’d… fall apart. Hotch, you can’t—”

“Lance,” Hotch cut through his denial, “We can’t lose you.”

“I _can’t_ leave,” he insisted. He knew exactly what would happen if he left. He’d die just as surely as if _he_ got his hands on him again.

“Lance—”

“Aaron,” Sweets interrupted the ex-boss that was like a brother to him, “ _Please_.”

A beat of silence echoed over the line. Aaron sighed, “I’ll see what I can do, but I refuse to leave you unprotected, Sweets.”

The therapist heaved a sigh, sagging against the wall as he regained the capacity to breathe. “Thank you,” he whispered fervently.

“And,” the profiler continued, “Morgan is going to pick you and Jack up today, ok?”

“Ok,” he agreed easily, still relieved.

“Take care, Lance,” Hotch murmured and hung up, leaving Sweets leaning against a wall in a bustling building, entirely isolated. He was panicked and desperate, his own private world crumbling to ash in his hands, but the rest of the world seemed to slide past him, oblivious. Untouched. Safe.

In that moment, Sweets was completely and utterly envious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, let me know what you think.  
> As always, I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can. For new readers, I'm very very sorry, but "as soon as I can" typically means a month. Or more. Pretty please read anyway?  
> Thank you all once again!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance struggles to keep his head above the veritable flood of emotions and memories triggered by the Ghost's newest message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, guys. Sorry this took so long. I went through about five variations before I skipped a scene I had been planning for months and pieced this together. This is still during Wannabe in the Weeds. Please be prepared to start seeing larger snippets of Lance's time with 'the Ghost'. It ain't pretty.  
> As always, I do not claim to understand severe health issues, such as PTSD.  
> Hope y'all like it...

Following the call from Aaron, Sweets had felt disoriented and light headed. And, as he started to hyperventilate, he had fled to the nearest restroom. His panic attack had passed in a blur, wedged in a stall struggling to breathe. In his opinion, it was worse than normal because it was in public… but he could objectively say he handled it well.

Lance emerged from the Jeffersonian lab’s bathroom an indeterminate time later, only to discover that Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had moved onto the platform in the center of the lab, along with the rest of their team.

It was likely due to the episode, but the remainder of the day seemed to pass in a blur. He remembered joining the group on the platform and something about the victim being strangled with a guitar string. He remembered the anthropologist-agent pair bickering as they departed, and he remembered Dr. Saroyan and Dr. Hodgins both pulling him aside and expressing their concern for him. A while later, he was back in his office.

In coming days, he wouldn’t remember if he said anything to Booth or Brennan; he wouldn’t even remember the trip back to the Hoover building. He would, however, remember the rest of his day, helping patients and doing paperwork. As he helped others, he temporarily forgot about the impending danger that loomed over his head. He did notice, in a detached sort of way, that he was more calm than he expected to be, but he figured it was just an after effect of the adrenaline rush. It was different every time for him, following an attack.

Regardless, the remainder of his day (immersed in denial) was productive— he even managed to complete the paperwork for a few evaluations early. He did a little more work on the case between his sessions, and sent a refined profile to Booth just before he packed up for the day. He left his office feeling lighter than he had all week.

It didn’t last, of course.

As he made his way out of the building, the invisible weight—the awareness of _him_ —settled over his shoulders like a heavy, bulky, cumbersome cloak… the type that easily induced the sensation of claustrophobia. Despite his best efforts, the reality of his situation began to set in once again and the questions he had been avoiding jumped to the forefront of his awareness, and haunted him all the way to the parking garage.

How much did _he_ know? Did he know where Sweets was? Was he watching? Would he kidnap him again, or would he destroy his friends and family instead? Was the team in danger? Was _Jack_ in danger?

The dangerous cycle of his thoughts was interrupted by someone calling his name; Sweets turned, instinctually moving behind a nearby car as he did. He needn’t have worried, though. Derek was standing about twenty feet down the row, waving a bit at him.

“Hey, Junior!” he chuckled, “I’ve been calling you. Did you forget I’m picking you and Jack up?”

Sweets winced slightly. Yes, he had forgotten. “Hey, Morgan,” he called back, already moving towards his friend, “Sorry. I’m just a little stuck in my head today.”

“Oh, don’t you know that’s dangerous?” he shot back jokingly.

Sweets couldn’t help but feel like it fell a little short, considering how true it was. “Oh, believe me… I know,” he muttered to himself. Louder, he changed the subject, “So, do you have any grand plans for today, Uncle Derek?”

The man in question let out a delighted laugh and clapped Lance on the back as he moved into range, “I didn’t know I should! I figured, since I’m the guest on this time-honored weekly uncle-nephew outing, I’d be getting the five-star treatment.”

Sweets let out a scoff, “In your dreams,” he smirked up at him, batting his hand aside. Morgan just chuckled and hustled his friend into his car.

An hour later, after sitting through the hell known as ‘after school pick up’, the two profilers were set up with giant ice cream cones, their nephew squished between them. Jack was beaming ear-to-ear, holding a ginormous masterpiece with ice cream smeared across his face and dripping down his arm.

“Oh man, buddy,” Derek chuckled, “Your dad is gonna kill us!”

“Nooo,” Jack rolled his eyes, “Daddy wouldn’t _kill_ you!”

“What’s he gonna do then?” Lance smiled down at the giggling little boy.

Jack gave a dramatic shrug, “I don’t know. He made me clean the bathroom last week.”

The two adults struggled not to laugh at the boy’s solemn thousand-yard stare, causing him to look suitably horrified by the chore.

“I’m sure you dad won’t make me clean the bathroom,” Derek reassured the boy, a faux serious note to his voice, “I’m sure he’ll just give me extra paper work. Your Uncle Lance, though….”

“Hey!” Sweets cried, glaring at the smirking profiler. Before he could say anything though, Jack laid a sticky hand on his wrist and gave him a horribly sympathetic and excruciatingly cute look. Any comeback he had harbored instantly disappeared.

How had he gotten this lucky?

Regardless, Aaron had indeed not killed them when they had dropped off a sticky Jack. He had even managed to maintain a stern demeanor (barely) until Jack had run upstairs to clean up. The smile he gave his son’s retreating back was _definitely_ worth the annoyed glare he gave the two of them. The Hotch Glare hadn’t lasted long, however, and while it appeared as though he rather wanted to talk to Sweets—likely about protection—he refrained and simply wished them a good night.

Some time later, after an unsuccessful bid to return home, Sweets found himself attempting to wield a hammer. Derek had dragged him along to his most recent project house (he needed to ‘finish one thing’), and had _somehow_ managed to convince him to lend a hand. That had led to Sweets _attempting_ to replace a floorboard. He had managed to measure and cut the piece just fine—his dad had taught him a thing or two back in high school, despite his protests. The problem was the whole _hitting in the nails_ bit. He was not _nearly_ coordinated enough, so the process led to a great deal of cursing, near misses, and bent nails. Derek, of course, was busy laughing his ass off.

Renovation was not Lance’s idea of fun.

He could see what was happening here, though. Morgan was trying to distract him. For a while, it even worked. But after he continued to fail to properly wield a hammer, his mind began to wander once again. His thoughts turned darker. His fears and pent up emotions, still there after his quiet panic attack earlier in the day, came back in full force.

So, when Derek’s phone beeped, causing him to frown and step out of the room, it was the last straw. Lance sat back on his heels and stared at the empty doorway, straining to hear what his friend was doing. And, when he returned, Lance gave him a disapproving frown.

“What is it?” he asked as innocently as he could.

Derek gave him a slightly strained smile, “Nothing; it was just Garcia.”

“Don’t lie to me. That wasn’t nothing,” Sweets shifted on his slightly numb legs and stood, “What aren’t you telling me?”

For a long moment, the half-skeletonized house echoed with silence. Derek considered his young friend’s determined and annoyed stance. He sighed. “Junior…”

“Don’t you Junior me,” Lance snapped back, “What happened? Does it have something to do with Hotch suddenly wanting to send me away?”

Derek brought a hand up and scraped it down his face, “Yes. There was a new victim discovered earlier today—”

“I know that,” Sweets protested.

Derek glared at him, “Fine. You wanna know what’s up? The message changed; that’s what’s up.”

“The message?” he asked a little dumbly, no longer really seeing his friend, “You mean, that h-he… carves—” Sweets’ voice ceased working.

Everything about the older profiler softened. He moved across the room and gently touched his distressed friend’s shoulder. “Yes,” he murmured, “The message he carves into his victims changed,” he ignored Sweets’ sharp intake of breath, and plowed onwards, “His last message wasn’t ‘ _nobody’_ , Junior, it was ‘ _Lance_ ’.”

“No…” he breathed, horror swelling up in his chest, like bile in his throat.

“That’s why we’re all ‘suddenly’ more worried, Sweets,” he huffed, “We want you safe.”

“I can’t leave,” he stated numbly, echoing what he had told Aaron earlier.

His friend shook his head and moved a little closer. “I know this is hard, Lance,” Derek squeezed his shoulder, “And I can only imagine how all of this feels.”

Numbly, Sweets simply shook his head. He wasn’t certain what he was shaking his head at, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

The older man wasn’t having it; he gently tugged the therapist until he had a grip on both of his shoulders and was peering into his face, “But I _can_ imagine how suffocating the idea of a security detail could be, especially now.”

Sweets stared back.

“But, I’m gonna be straight with you here, man…” he huffed a sigh, “You’ve gotta _try_ to let Hotch help you. If not for your sake, then for ours.”

He blinked, uncomprehending.

Morgan shifted his grip and pulled him in for a hug, “We _can’t_ lose you again, Junior. We just… can’t.”

A white-hot sensation of… something —from all that pent up emotion, the echoes from his panic attack— streaked though him. Pain, panic, relief, horror, worry, confusion, love, fear… it blurred together in a kaleidoscope of conflict. It had been there, in the background, but now it was out in the open, exactly how Lance had worked so hard to stop earlier.

It was too much.

Lance broke.

The burly profiler with a heart of gold merely pulled him in tighter and ignored the rapidly growing wetness on his shoulder.

* * *

The day following his meltdown on Derek’s shoulder was a blur. It was a blur of emotion and activity, and was exactly what he needed. Going through the motions of his life and helping those who needed it was a huge relief; Sweets always preferred to have a purpose, and being a therapist filled that need in a way nothing else had—not even being a profiler with the BAU.

The routine lulled him to a certain point, and allowed him to work though a few things the previous night, spent talking with Derek, had shaken loose. Over lunch he called Aaron, who agreed to meet him the following day, Friday, to talk about protection. Shortly thereafter, Sweets received a phone call from Booth, sharing the news that they had caught their killer—Tommy’s neighbor—and that the team planned to visit the establishment the late singer frequented in order to celebrate… and hear Brennan sing.

Sweets instantly agreed to go.

Once he finished up for the day and assured his (justifiably) overprotective family that he was going to be with an FBI agent, the therapist found himself seated around a table, next to Zack, laughing with his newfound team.

It only got better as Brennan finally agreed to sing and made her way onstage. Everyone was delighted and surprised to find that the anthropologist was actually quite good. In fact, Sweets was so engrossed in Brennan’s enthusiastic performance, he almost missed the yell of “Seeley” from behind the group. There was no way, however, he could miss Booth shooting to his feet a split second before a heart-stopping crack destroyed the entire atmosphere.

Booth’s shoulder jerked back; someone screamed; red blossomed across his chest.

For one deadly, excruciating moment, Booth waivered on his feet. In the next, he hit the ground. Then Brennan was diving off the stage, towards her partner. People were screaming, everyone was on their feet, Sweets turned to look, found Pam Nunan holding a gun, looking stunned.

A moment passed, everyone was yelling, Pam’s face hardened. He took a step towards her, unsure what he was going to do, but certain he had to stop her before she shot again, but only managed that single step before another heart-stopping bang echoed through the small establishment. A dot of red erupted from Pam’s throat. In an eerie echo of moments before, the obsessive woman waivered on her feet before tumbling to the ground.

Lance whirled around to find Brennan abandoning Booth’s just-used service weapon at her side as she turned back to it’s owner. She desperately covered the gushing wound on her partner’s chest, meaningless reassurances tumbling past her lips.

Sweets was frozen for one terrible second before he rushed to Dr. Brennan’s side, ripping off his jacket and thrusting it at the desperate anthropologist’s occupied hands. She obligingly lifted her hands for a split second before applying pressure to the fabric instead.

“Come on, Booth,” she pleaded repeatedly, “It’s going to be fine; you’re gonna make it. Come on, Booth.”

Lance’s breath caught in his throat, the desperate scientist’s pleas fading into the background, overwhelmed by the roaring in his ears. Nonsensical fragments of thoughts whirled through the frozen therapist’s mind, and he attempted to decipher them before it devolved into something more serious, like a panic attack. He couldn’t afford one. Not now.

_Panic_ was the first word to surface. It was what surrounded him on all sides. It was what he couldn’t let himself feel right now.

The next… _Pain_. Yes, that’s right. Booth was in pain. He was pale, it was clear… he was going into shock.

And… _red_. The blood. Yes. _Booth’s_ blood, on Brennan’s hands.

_Cold_. It was a little chilly, but Sweets was aware that could easily be his own shock setting in…

But… _Rust_. Ah, yes, the neglected tools hanging on the wall across from him— Wait. No. That’s not right.

Sweets blinked, refocusing on the heart stopping scene before him.

It was the smell. The smell of _iron_.

In a matter of seconds, the air surrounding Booth had become thick with the metallic tang of blood. Sweets sucked in a sharp shocked breath of realization around the all too familiar lump still obstructing his breathing. It was so familiar, but he hadn’t smelt it since… well.

Sweets sank to his knees beside the begging scientist, ostensibly to help, but in reality… he was attempting to stave off the tightness igniting in his chest and the phantom sensations tingling across his skin.

Iron, blood, rust. Bindings digging into his wrists, pain throbbing through his head, his chest… numb feet—were they even there anymore?—numb fingers, save the one that was a mangled broken mess sandwiched in a splint he was certain was designed to heighten the endless pain…

And the terror. Mind numbing terror.

A black mask leaning over him.

Laughter.

_Tell me, Lance…_

A sickly melodic voice, rich, deep, mocking.

_Who are you, really?_

Cold, sharp, pain.

_What does it feel like?_

Furious, hot, heat.

_Isn’t it lovely?_

The glint of light off the needle.

_Honestly, boy, you’ll bleed out like this._

The brush of thread against his skin.

_Stop moving; you’ll hurt yourself._

Blinding pain; the sting of alcohol on his arm.

_You can’t bleed out on me_.

A prick. A pull. A sickening tug.

_I’m not done with you yet._

A hand, strong, firm on his chest…

“Sir,” a voice echoed in his head. “Sir, we need you to move.” The hand on his chest pushed him firmly backwards.

Sweets blinked. He was in a club, Booth was bleeding out, and the paramedics had arrived.

“Of course,” he stammered, stumbling to his feet and to a chair several feet behind him, “Sorry.” He was still half in the past, needle threaded through his skin, tugging steadily to the relentless velvety voice echoing from a faceless shadow.

Lance watched the flurry of action as professionals fought to stabilize the life of one of the most extraordinary agents he had ever known (and that was saying something), a hollow feeling in his chest.

The layered flashback gave another sickening tug; Sweets’ right hand drifted to his left forearm, sliding under the thin fabric of his button up shirt to brush against smooth scar tissue.

Brennan was hovering behind the paramedics, looking lost. Behind her, the rest of the Jeffersonian team was huddled together, horror and fear in every line of their bodies.

The skin under Lance’s hand gave a phantom tug.

The man leant over Booth yelled something, a bag was nearly ripped open in haste.

The voice in his head cackled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo? Yes? No? Maybe?  
> The last scene has been written for about a month an a half, btw.   
> Also, thank you for the comments I've gotten over the past few days; you really helped motivate me to find the time and to push that tiniest bit harder to get this chapter done.  
> You're all awesome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU leaves, the Jeffersonian team goes to a funeral, and Sweets struggles to keep his perpetual panic at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH! I'M SO SORRY, EVERYONE! Man, this took forever. And the horrible bit is that most of it has been written since I posted the last chapter. I just hit a HUGE writer's block... I finally decided to cut off the chapter a scene earlier than I had planned (it would have been way too long and that was the scene that was giving me the most trouble anyway), and just post what I had. This takes place during Pain in the Heart (which will probably be spread over the next 3 or 4 chapters) and Solitary Man (barely even a reference, though).   
> I'm not entirely happy with how this turned out, but well... I suppose I had to give poor Lance a reprieve at some point, right?  
> Note: Please take into account how Sweets is different in this AU; he's more familiar with pain and loss, and wouldn't play with Brennan's feelings the way he does in the series.

Special Agent Seeley Booth was not dead.

It became a mantra, of sorts, for Sweets over the two weeks following the shooting.

_Booth is not dead_ , he repeated to himself over and over. _Booth is alive_ , he told himself as he went through the motions of his day, as he dealt with his concerned family, as he ignored the killer out for his blood. _Booth is in the hospital. Booth is healing. Booth will be ok._

It was a miracle. The bullet had missed his heart by an inch, and his aorta by even less. Crucial muscle was left whole, vital arteries and veins were only nicked… it was the only reason he hadn’t bled out before making it to the operating table.

Agent Booth was _alive_.

Sweets was one of few privileged to that tiny piece of information. He had, in fact, been chosen by the Bureau to notify the remaining individuals on the shockingly brief list. A woman named Rebecca and her and Booth’s mutual son, Parker. A brother, Jared, and a grandfather, Hank. An ex-superior officer and a current superior agent, who both already knew and were coordinating the operation. And finally, of course, Dr. Temperance Brennan.

The Jeffersonian team didn’t know. They were grieving, and Brennan was antsy and uncomfortable about knowing something she couldn’t tell them. Sweets found himself agreeing whole-heartedly with her (and no, the world did not explode with that startling revelation), but there was nothing they could really do about it. He hated to watch them, especially Angela with her ginormous heart, deal with the sudden loss of a valued colleague… but he hated watching them worry over Brennan and her seeming denial even more.

It wasn’t much better for Lance. The BAU family had come to the conclusion that he was on the verge of shock (which to be honest, he was) and would crash into an incoherent puddle at any moment. The situation with… the Ghost (even thinking the moniker made Lance’s heart stutter) was still dire, and it weighed heavily on the group. No new victims had been found, but due to his tendency to keep his captives from anywhere between a week and a few years, that didn’t mean much. They had no viable evidence, no leads, and no idea where to start.

Despite the clear evidence of danger, and because Lance was unwilling to relocate for his own protection, Aaron was unable to authorize a protection detail for him. Instead, the team had closed ranks and decided to do it themselves; Morgan and Prentiss had basically moved into his apartment with him, Garcia had equipped him with four separate trackers he was ordered to secret on his person at all times, and he received a phone call from someone on the team every few hours. If that weren’t enough, he was no longer allowed to drive himself to work, Emily or Derek walked him in and out of the building, and his apartment seemed to acquire a revolving door. Rossi laden with food, Reid with books, Garcia with cookies or some vibrant doohickey, Jessica and Hotch with Jack, JJ and Will with Henry… Every night there were at least three other people in his tiny living room.

It was kind of them and truly helped him function like a normal individual, without a daily panic attack, but it was stifling. And every day, Sweets became more and more concerned about what the Gh—what _he_ might do to _them_.

Sweets was aware of the profile. He knew that _he_ wasn’t one for indirect torture, not when he fixated on a victim, as he so clearly had… but he was _terrified_ that he would change just to destroy Lance’s fragile little world.

And now… well. Strauss had run out of patience. She was tired of her best team grounding themselves in Virginia, only accepting consultations and local cases. She was pulling rank. The team was distressed, leaving him just before Booth’s ‘funeral’, with… _him_ still out there, but they’d run out of time.

Sweets was terrified.

Their first out-of-state case in three weeks came in while he was at work; Aaron had called to give him the news.

“I’m doing everything I can, Sweets,” he had sighed, “But most of the team is leaving, and we can’t stop it.”

Sweets had sat back in his chair, biting back the rising panic and gripping his pen so hard his hand turned white, “I’ll be alright, Aaron, I promise. You’ll only be gone for a few days.”

“We won’t leave you unprotected,” the man had simply continued in his implacable manner, “I’m just not sure how it’s going to work yet.”

“What about Jack?” Sweets was far more concerned about his nephew.

“He and Jessica are going to stay with Will and Henry,” the profiler had reassured him. “Garcia’s going to crash there too, since its close to Quantico.”

“Strength in numbers,” Sweets had been relieved, sagging a bit and leaning heavily forward onto his desk.

“We knew you’d appreciate it,” Aaron had allowed the tiniest smile into his voice. “Listen, I have to go—I need to try arrange things for you before our flight.”

“Ok. Stay safe.”

“Of course.”

Sweets took comfort in that knowledge now, as he made his way through the Hoover building’s lobby. Just as with the status of Booth’s wellbeing, he took to internally chanting, ‘ _They’re all safe_.’ As long as the BAU family was ok, he’d manage. One way or another.

He pushed through the final door, stepping out onto the sidewalk and taking a deep breath of DC air. A second later, he was paranoidly evaluating his surroundings. (Was it paranoia when there really was someone out to get him?) The street was packed with cars and the sidewalk had the usual spattering of businessmen, tourists, and Bureau personnel. It was all very routine.

Strange. He was so used to Derek or Emily meeting him out here, he could have sworn he’d seen a familiar head of dark hair…

“Lance!” a familiar voice called, followed swiftly by a familiar woman wearing a familiar smile.

Sweets blinked, “Em?”

She reached him and pulled him into a swift hug, “You didn’t think we’d really leave you alone, did you?”

“But…” he pulled back and blinked at her, “Why aren’t you headed to New Mexico?”

“I’m taking some much-needed leave,” she chuckled a bit, “Or, you could say, I pulled the long straw. Practically had to wrestle Morgan over getting to stay with you.”

“Em…” he didn’t know where to start.

“C’mon, Sweets,” the agent tugged on his arm, setting off towards the parking garage, “Jessica asked us to pick up Jack.”

Despite himself, Lance felt a grin suffuse his face. A sense of warmth chased away the last vestiges of panic. Everything was ok. He wasn’t alone. The team was safe. Booth was alive. Prentiss was dragging him down the sidewalk and he was going to get to see his nephew.

Everything was ok.

* * *

Prentiss became his shadow.

There was no other way to describe it. She went with him everywhere, leaving only when he was secure at work in his office. She stayed at his apartment, camped out on his couch like a watchdog. They had breakfast together, she drove him to work, she occupied herself… somehow, and then she picked him up. He needed to go somewhere during the day? She was there in under five minutes or was already in the building. He wanted to see Jack or Jess or Penelope after work? Off they went.

It was, Sweets reflected, rather like having a chauffeur. Or maybe a butler. The thought made him snort.

The woman (chauffeur) in question glanced at him curiously from behind the wheel, but she didn’t ask what he thought was funny. She simply smiled back at him, as though she was simply happy he was happy—regardless of why.

They were on their way to the Jeffersonian. The prospect had him slightly stressed; it was the first time he was going to be seeing the entire group since Booth got shot. More than that, it was the day of the funeral, and (hopefully) the reveal of Booth’s livelihood. …. And he had a stoic chauffer, equipped with a gun, practically glued to his side.

How the hell was he going to explain that?

Silence echoed in the car as Emily pulled up beside the regal looking building and shifted the vehicle into park. She turned in place and fixed Sweets with a stern look, “Get a ride from someone, stay with the group, and text me when you get to the cemetery.” Sweets blinked at her in surprise, but she barreled on, giving him a painfully sympathetic look, “I don’t feel right going, since I didn’t know him, but I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back, ok?”

After a beat of stunned silence, Sweets smiled at her, “Thanks, Em.”

“Sure. And if you need to leave before the service is—”

“Em,” he cut in firmly, “I can promise you that won’t be necessary.” At her doubtful look, he rolled his eyes, “Really, I swear. Everything is fine.”

She huffed a sigh, but didn’t try to argue her point. “Fine, fine,” she made a shooing motion, “Get going, you. I’ll see you afterwards.”

Feeling considerably lighter, Lance made his way into the building and past security. For the most part, the building seemed absolutely ordinary, with its typical driven energy. When he reached the main lab, however, he was greeted by a somber group dressed in black and looking lost. They were staring at Brennan and Zack, who were on the platform in their typical lab coats, doing something with a set of remains. The accomplished anthropologist looked worn thin, and her friends looked worried and despondent.

“Hey, Sweets,” Hodgins greeted uncharacteristically softly, only glancing at the therapist for a second before turning back to watch his friend.

Saroyan and Angela murmured their own greetings, but similarly their attention was mostly on the anthropologist. Sweets sighed to himself; Brennan wasn’t built for keeping secrets, and her out of character behavior had been noticed and was causing concern.

“She should go,” Angela said suddenly, “Funerals are important. They let you say goodbye.” She turned to look at Sweets, a desperate note in her voice, “Right?”

Sweets frowned slightly, “Is she not going?”

Hodgins let out a scornful sort of chuckle, “No, of course not. She says it’s ‘ _pointless_ ’.”

“I’ll talk to her,” the therapist sighed, moving towards the platform. He saw Angela start forward out of the corner of his eye, but Cam reached out to stop her. As he approached the pair bent over the occupied table, he called out softly, “Dr. Brennan, may I have a word?”

“I’m busy,” she stated without looking up. Over her head, he briefly met Zack’s gaze. He looked resigned.

Sweets sighed, “Dr. Brennan, please.”

“I have remains to identify,” she insisted, “He may have a family.”

Lance glanced down at the skeletonized remains, taking in the discoloration and degradation. Considering what little Spencer had shared on the topic, they seemed old. Very old. “His family is likely in a similar position at this point, Dr. Brennan. I rather think Agent Booth is more deserving of our attention at this juncture. Don’t you?”

The anthropologist put down the bone she was holding and turned to face him, a hard set to her jaw, “No. The funeral is pointless.”

Sweets sighed, “You know that’s not true.”

“How is it not?” she snapped, the anger and frustration she had likely been withholding since Sweets had shared her partner’s true status leaking out.

Lance considered her for a moment before turning to Zack, “Can we have a minute?”

The young doctor blinked at him for a second, caught off guard, before he rapidly nodded his head and beat a hasty retreat, “Oh, uh, of course.”

Once he was safely out of earshot, Lance turned his attention back to the woman who was glaring at him. “Dr. Brennan, there is likely going to be a very dangerous criminal there. His capture is crucial to not only national security, but Booth’s future safety.”

“There is no reason for me to be present,” she scowled at him.

“No,” he shook his head, “There are at least two very good reasons for you to be there.”

Brennan huffed, “And what exactly are they?”

“As far as the world, a therefore this criminal, is concerned, Booth died for you.” She shifted uncomfortably and opened her mouth, but Sweets didn’t let her interrupt him, “Wouldn’t it seem strange if the partner he saved wasn’t there to say goodbye?” She pressed her lips together and didn’t answer, so he pressed on, “Even disregarding that, Booth has insisted on identifying and bringing this guy down himself. Are you ok letting him do that without being there to watch his back?”

A beat of silence stretched into two. Brennan sighed, “No.”

Sweets gave her a small smile, and motioned for her to lead the way off the platform, “Well, come on then.”

The group waiting at the base of the platform stairs was staring at the pair of them in surprise. In fact, the looks directed towards him seemed slightly awed.

It made Sweets incredibly uncomfortable.

The car ride to the cemetery was just as uncomfortable. Sweets hid in the third row of Cam’s SUV with Zack, stewing in the strained silence. Once they arrived, the ceremony was just as awful. It was a somber affair with black clothes, palpable grief, and ever so depressingly normal weather… The entire atmosphere was suffocating and eerily reminiscent of Hayley’s funeral. If it weren’t for the tiny details that didn’t quite fit with the rest of the image, Sweets was certain he would have fallen apart. As it was, he found himself antsy and impatient, just like the others who were “in” on the secret.

The Jeffersonian group stood shoulder to shoulder together, and Sweets watched Brennan shift uncomfortably and lean sideways to whisper things into Angela’s ear. Across from them, Sweets could see the woman he assumed was Rebecca clutching the hand of Booth’s son Parker. She looked stressed, annoyed, and nervous, while Parker just seemed confused. Agents disguised as supportive friends flanked the pair, complete with comforting touches, but anyone with some sort of behavioral training would easily be able to tell they were far too aware of their surroundings to actually be grieving civilians. On top of that, half of the rifle-wielding uniformed officers seemed far too alert for simply performing an honorary ceremony. Sweets hoped it was good enough to fool the bad guy.

Lost in thought, Sweets only half listened as Caroline Julian (who had not been informed) gave a heartfelt speech, and only half registered the unexpected movement as a man moved forward to place a white rose on Booth’s “coffin” and one of the uniformed guards rushed forward and tackled him.

Confusion and indignation rippled through the crowd as the two grappled on the immaculate green grass, but Lance merely watched in interest (and a great lack of surprise) as the ‘rogue’ officer’s dress hat was knocked from his head, revealing him to be none other than Booth himself. A moment later, the ‘undead’ agent was knocked into his own coffin, dislodging the lid and revealing a plastic manikin.

Gasps of shock echoed through the crowd, although those who already knew looked simultaneously relieved and anxious. Rebecca had swooped Parker into her arms and was whispering into his ear, causing a large grin to split the young boy’s face, while the various agents who were planted in the crowd moved forward, placing themselves between the commotion and the baffled civilians. It only worked for most of them, Sweets noticed in mild amusement as Brennan stomped her way up behind the man who had managed to knock Booth down. She bent briefly to retrieve an arm from the manikin, hefting it slightly, before bashing Booth’s opponent across the back of the head. He toppled like a felled tree, the gun he had just retrieved falling uselessly from his hand.

A delighted smile spread across the agent’s face as he sprung to his feet, “Bones!” He glanced at the unconscious criminal before grinning even wider at the anthropologist, “Nice shot!”

Brennan gave a frustrated huff, discarding the plastic arm before stomping up to her partner and giving him a firm jab in the chest. “ _Never_ do that again,” she commanded, scowling at him.

“Aw,” he affected an entirely unconvincing look of pity, “You _missed_ me.”

A look of utter fury flitted across the scientist’s face, and Sweets determined it was probably a good idea to step in before the stress of the past two weeks caused the woman to snap. He swiftly slid past the rest of the crowd and placed himself beside the pair.

“Agent Booth,” he greeted the still grinning man, attempting to subtly inject some distance between the partners, “I’m glad to see you really are completely healed.”

The agent redirected his grin towards him, “Sweets! Gotta say I’m happy about that too.”

As though that acknowledgement was a signal, the still-present crowd of well-wishers burst out into murmurs, the undercover agents moved forward and retrieved the unconscious criminal, and Booth was promptly swarmed. Rebecca set down Parker, who nearly tackled his father, while the Jeffersonian team hesitantly approached their miraculously alive friend. Ms. Julian, however, had no such compunction for hesitation and had the ‘undead’ agent cornered in a matter of moments. His attempts to tease her for her heartfelt speech bounced off her rather forceful lecture—which caused more that a few smiles amongst those who knew the intimidating prosecutor.

In the midst of the chaos, Sweets discretely peered at Brennan and was relieved to see her ire was no longer overtly obvious; perhaps they’d get out of this mess before she hit her insufferable partner after all.

And, well… as Lance observed the baffled crowd, the discarded coffin, and the quietly working agents, he couldn’t help but be thankful that this funeral, at least, had a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked that! Thank you all for your patience and continued readership-- Please drop me a comment! I love hearing from you, regardless of what you have to say.  
> I'll keep plodding away, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter at a more reasonable time that this one (sorry again...).  
> Wish me luck with doing Gormogon justice!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone left a present...  
> (SHORTER CHAPTER THAN NORMAL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me! I'm updating within two days! Are you shocked? I'm shocked!  
> This piece contains the scene that delayed the last chapter so very much, but I finally got it figured out, soooo.... Yeah.  
> This is shorter than normal, sorry. I just wanted to get it out there since it was originally intended to be a part of the last chapter (before the whole thing grew a life of its own).  
> Again, Pain in the Heart with mentions of Solitary Man. There is some dialogue from Pain in the Heart that is used (but modified as normal) in this chapter.  
> Enjoy!

Sweets heaved a large sigh of relief as he stepped into the lab. While the ride back to the Jeffersonian, following the aborted funeral and the surprisingly brief wrap-up process, was a great deal less strained, he was emotionally exhausted. Initially, everyone was just relieved, but by the time they made it into the car, the incessant stream of questions started. At first, they were all directed at Booth, but Brennan mentioned that Sweets was the one to tell her that Booth was alive, and everyone turned their questioning on the therapist. He didn’t mind the curiosity or the disappointment, but after a few minutes of having everyone’s attention on him, his chest started to constrict, and his head started to ache. It wasn’t quite like his panic attacks… it was more like, well, claustrophobia. An overwhelming urge to _leave_ , to go _anywhere_ else, and to go there _now_.

He was out of the car as soon as it rolled to a stop. Once he placed five feet between himself and the next person out of the car, he felt like he could breathe again. The others caught up before long, but he had recovered enough in those few short seconds that it didn’t bother him much.

Regardless, the cool, clinical interior of the lab was both refreshingly open and a welcome distraction; as soon as the group set foot in the lab, Brennan made a bee-line for the platform with most of the others trailing behind her. By this point, Booth and Brennan had returned to their habitual bickering and most of the group was thoroughly engrossed in watching the pair. Brennan was clearly still peeved about the whole ordeal, but she also seemed as relieved as everyone else (in her own way) at Booth’s safe return. She was mostly upset that he hadn’t told her he was alive himself, policy and national security be damned. Sweets blamed the free entertainment on how everyone in the group missed the figure standing a few feet to the side of the platform until she stepped forward.

Cam stopped suddenly, falling into her natural role as leader automatically, even when surprised. “Hello,” she greeted politely, “Can we help you?”

Sweets was already smiling as the slightly intimidating and very familiar woman tilted her head slightly and answered, “Yes, actually.” She frowned and pointed at Booth, “You’re alive?” With out waiting for an answer, she slid her finger over to point at Sweets, “Did you know?”

“Em,” Sweets greeted, not bothering to answer the question. He gave her a wry smile that would tell her everything she needed to know and slid toward her, between Hodgins and Zack, “I didn’t expect to find you waiting in here.”

Prentiss gave him a small smile and shook her head, “Well, I _did_ think you were coming from a funeral.” The profiler gave him a thorough once over, her critical gaze checking for any signs of distress, before quirking an eyebrow in a wordless reprimand.

The therapist affected a slightly sheepish look and gave her a little shrug, basically saying that he hadn’t been allowed to talk about it. Emily merely huffed a half-amused, half-exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. Sweets narrowed his eyes at her, not entirely certain what she was implying, but she simply held out an arm in a silent invitation. After a brief moment of hesitation, he decided not to dwell on it and moved up beside her to accept the one-armed hug. In order to do so, Sweets ended up turning to face the group of scientists (and Booth), who were still examining Emily with great interest. They appeared to be far happier than meeting someone he knew warranted; Angela was grinning like a loon from where she leant against Hodgins, who was also smiling at the pair, while Booth seemed to be trying to hold back a smirk of some kind and failing horribly.

Slightly embarrassed, the therapist did his best to pull away from the agent. Emily, however, was having none of it; she shifted her one-armed grip to his shoulders and pinned him securely in place against her side. It was typical, really. He shouldn’t have expected anything less; all the girls in the BAU family seemed convinced it was their solemn duty to smother him in as much love and affection as possible. So, aside from an aggravated look, Lance didn’t bother attempting to break away again, recognizing an exercise in futility when he saw one. He simply accepted his fate and moved on.

“Uh, everyone, this is my friend SSA Emily Prentiss of the BAU,” he offered without prompting, “Em, this is the Jeffersonian team.”

The profiler turned her head just enough to smirk at him. “I gathered that, yes,” she teased before (to Lance’s great relief) releasing the therapist and stepping forward. She offered her hand to the closest person, who happened to be the recently undead team member, “Agent Booth, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” he accepted the handshake, “Did you work with Sweets when he was at the BAU?” He seemed to be physically restraining himself from asking more, and Sweets was privately very thankful. None of them knew much about his time at the BAU—or at least any details—and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Yep,” she smiled a little, “He’s like a kid brother now.”

For a moment, Sweets was so busy being relieved that the comment flew straight over his head. By the time it sunk in, Prentiss was already turning towards Brennan. “Hey!” he protested half-heartedly.

The profiler’s only reaction was a small chuckle as she held out her hand to the anthropologist.

The introductions continued smoothly, with the other members of the Jeffersonian team introducing themselves and expressing a great deal of interest in both Prentiss and the BAU. Brennan was the first to lose interest (it was, after all, _psychology_ ) and retreated onto the platform to her most recent set of bones, with Zack on her heels. For some reason, however, this simply caused the entire group to relocate. Based on the firm set to Brennan’s jaw, that was not what the anthropologist had intended.

Sweets, however, found himself enjoying the experience; he hadn’t had many chances to watch the Jeffersonian team at work. He and Emily found an empty work station to lean against to stay out of the way and watch the scientists flit about, questioning them the entire time. It was rather impressive to observe their multitasking capabilities. It was, well, rather soothing.

“Why’d you leave the BAU, Sweets?” Angela asked curiously from a few feet away, bracing a clipboard against her hip, “I can’t believe you were an agent!”

Welp. There went his sense of peace.

With that single question, everyone’s attention was focused solely on him once more. Even Cam, who had been questioning Emily on how the BAU approached a case, fell quiet. Booth winced in the background, and Brennan looked up with a frown.

“Uh, well,” he started hesitantly, glancing at Emily out of the corner of his eye. She gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s a long story,” he finally hedged. Sweets was suddenly, vividly reminded of the conversation outside the courthouse, when Booth pinned down his past and Brennan attempted to question him.

“We have time,” Hodgins pointed out idly, in a bizarre echo of the anthropologist all those weeks ago. He was standing with Zack beside Brennan, holding a metal tray full of indistinguishable supplies.

Sweets saw Emily shift beside him as though she was about to say something, and Booth opened his mouth and shifted forward slightly across the platform. He knew they were going to protest the line of questioning, but for some reason… he didn’t want them to give him an out. Maybe it was the stress he’d been going through for weeks, maybe it was the relief of having Booth back, maybe it was pent up frustration and helplessness… but, regardless of the reason, he found his temper flaring and his answer easy.

He gave a shrug and narrowed his eyes at both the entomologist and artist, “It’s also really none of your business.” There was no way in _hell_ that he was talking about _that_. Not now, and certainly not with this group, no matter how kind and wonderful they had proven themselves to be.

The therapist was relieved at the reaction to his retort; Booth let out an aborted snort, while Hodgins stared at him in surprise and Brennan looked down in a poor attempt to hide her own amusement. Zack glanced at her in confusion before wandering away from the group with the tray Hodgins had been holding. Cam and Emily were both smiling, and Lance was fairly certain the profiler was scheming about how quickly she could tell Derek about ‘Junior’ losing his temper.

Angela merely gave a good-natured shrug, “Fair enough, I guess.”

After a slightly awkward pause, Cam turned back to Emily and reclaimed the conversation, “So, is the entire BAU team on leave right now?”

“No,” Emily answered promptly, “The team is in New Mexico right now, wrapping up an HSK case.”

“HSK?” Booth repeated. Lance breathed a sigh of relief at the change in conversation.

“Highway Serial Killer,” the profiler clarified, “He’s a transient strangler.”

“Why aren’t you with them?” Angela asked curiously.

Emily shrugged, “I’m on a separate case right now. A local one.”

Lance felt his eyebrows knit together and he turned to frown at his friend. That wasn’t true at all. She was officially on leave, using her hard-earned vacation time to help keep him safe. Yes, she was looking for the Gh—… But, as far as the Bureau was concerned, she was off duty.

“Is it a serial killer?” Hodgins inquired curiously.

She nodded and gave a little shrug, “Most of our cases are.” She then began to outline how solo consultations worked in the BAU… probably to avoid talking about the details of the case and upsetting Lance. Fortunately, the team seemed just as intrigued by her detailed explanation as they had been by the revelation of the case. All of them—save Brennan and Zack—leant towards her, as though through a magnetic pull. Brennan, however, was once again engrossed in her work and Zack was… walking towards the group with a brown box?

There was a strange look on his face, but the therapist didn’t know what it was. It looked almost normal for him, passive and objective, but there was something about it that unsettled Sweets. Zack approached his mentor and interrupted her current examination, garnering the attention of the others in the process, “Dr. Brennan, someone left you a package.”

The scientist turned to face him with a frown, eyes focused on the offending object.

Silence fell across the group as she accepted the meticulously wrapped and minimally labeled package and began carefully ripping it open. Sweets knew they were all thinking the same thing; packages were delivered to offices in the Jeffersonian, not abandoned randomly on work stations…

Booth leant over his partner’s shoulder as she carefully uncovered a wooden box, slowly opened it, and… Booth let out a quiet, “Oh,” that was almost a curse, reflecting the look on his partner’s face.

She looked up at the group, explaining quietly, “It’s a mandible.”

Wordlessly, Cam extended a box of gloves for Brennan as she moved towards the nearest examination camera. The rest of the group set down whatever they had been holding and slowly converged on the anthropologist. Prentiss and Sweets, just as curious as the others, shifted forward in an attempt to see.

“Look at that,” Booth observed wryly, pointing at the velvet interior of the box, “Two silver screws,”

“Silver screws,” Hodgins repeated, moving forward, “as in…”

“Silver skeleton?” Angela filled in for him, a look of horror and disgust on her face.

Sweets felt his breath catch in his throat and he saw Emily glance at him in concern out of the corner of his eye. He had forgotten. _How_ had he _forgotten_?

“As in…” Hodgins continued, eyes wide as he glanced between the others and he wooden box Brennan was positioning under the magnifying camera.

“Gormogon?” Cam finished his thought, eyes just was wide.

Emily gave a sharp inhale from beside Lance. “The _cannibal_?” she hissed. He could picture the look of horrified realization she was wearing. He had some idea of how she felt… Surprised, horrified, maybe even a touch terrified; he had been so preoccupied with the serial killer out to get him that he had completely forgotten about the danger that loomed on the Jeffersonian team’s horizon.

“That is speculation,” Brennan protested, focusing on the image of the jaw on the screen before them. Lance could appreciate her skepticism, but…

“Tooth marks,” Zack pointed out, invalidating his mentor’s denial. And Lance’s. He felt his stomach churn, flip flopping in an overwhelmed mess of horror. He had _forgotten_ about _Gormogon_.

“ _Someone’s_ been snacking on it,” Booth agreed.

“Snacking?” Cam prodded, no doubt aiming for clarification, “As in cannibalism?”

Bones shook her head, “Events of cannibalism do not necessarily mean—"

“Bones, it’s Gormogon,” Booth cut off his partner, “It has to be.”

Lance had to agree, _It’s a jaw that’s been gnawed on, complete with the silver screws that would be necessary to attach it to the skeleton. What else could it be?_

Gormogon was back.

“Oh god…” Cam murmured, almost to herself.

Emily let out a disgruntled snort of agreement, “I hate cannibals.”

Cam glanced at the profiler before returning her horrified gaze to the jaw bone. She shook her head and echoed the thoughts of the entire group, “Who has he eaten this time?”

An uneasy silence fell across the platform. Sweets braced himself on the nearest stable surface in an attempt to steady the world that was spinning around him. He was immeasurably grateful when Prentiss, wonderful Prentiss, clasped his shoulder in a grounding grip.

_Two_ serial killers. They had to worry about _two_ serial killers in the DC area. One was targeting Sweets, and the other was targeting the Jeffersonian. Panic swelled in his chest, but he bit it down, focusing on breathing and the comforting weight on his shoulder.

He wasn’t alone. He didn’t have to face anything without his family or this wonderful new team by his side. It wasn’t ok… but he would survive.

One way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo? How much do you think the Jeffersonian team is picking up on?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strauss calls, Emily rolls up her sleeves, an explosion shakes the team, and Sweets struggles. (I mean, what did you expect from me? Of course Sweets is going to struggle.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Just barely over a month since the last update. I know you are all here despite my horrible updating schedule, and I'm eternally grateful, but I am once again sorry this took so long.  
> Pain in the Heart is turning into a very long section... This is part three, and I'm anticipating at least two more. Ack! I just have so much I want to do with Gormogon!  
> Anyway, I hope you all like this chapter. It includes a scene I did not plan to write. At all. Strauss just kinda insisted or something :P

Sweets wasn’t entirely certain what happened after the jawbone was discovered. It was a blur of activity and distress, and he spent the majority of his energy attempting to conceal his panic. He learned most of the details after the fact. Booth called the FBI, and a team swarmed the Jeffersonian, crawling all over the lab, scouring for leads. The entire group, including Sweets and Prentiss, were questioned within an inch of their lives, the entire platform was dusted for prints, and the security footage was picked apart with a fine-tooth comb. In the end, they came up with a grand total of nothing. No one in the group (or the immediate area) had seen anything, the work surfaces were covered in prints belonging only to those who belonged on the platform, and—perhaps the most discouraging—the security system had crashed during the day while the team was at the funeral, and no one could pin down _when_ the package was left, let alone by whom.

By the time Lance and Emily had finally departed, the scientists were growing frustrated and the FBI agents who had been called in (for the sake of impartiality) were dispersing. The therapist was exhausted and worn emotionally thin by the time they made it home. As soon as they entered his apartment, he set his sights on his bed. Emily was barely able to force him to eat before he retreated into his bedroom like some sort of gopher.

As could be expected, his sleep could only have been described as tortured.

In the morning, Sweets was greeted by the sight of Prentiss braced against the kitchen counter, shoulders stiff and phone pressed to her ear, a scowl on her face just barely visible from where he stood. The reason for her foul mood became apparent almost immediately.

“No, ma’am,” she stated stiffly, glaring her coffee cup into submission, tilting it this way and that for good measure, “it was not my intention to become involved in a non-BAU case.” Her voice practically dripped with attitude. After a moment, she huffed a frustrated sigh and thunked her cup down on the counter, “With all due respect, ma’am—” she broke off, then raised her voice, “My priority is _Lance_! Ghost or no Ghost, I am using _my vacation time_. I am on _leave_ , and I will respectfully remind you, _ma’am_ , that I am not currently under your command.”

Lance hovered in the doorway, stunned by her show of temper on his behalf (and, at least a little, by the use of _his_ moniker). He couldn’t help but wonder, however, what exactly Strauss was upset about. Because, well, it was obvious to anyone who knew the BAU that Prentiss was speaking to her section chief. Emily was silent for a long moment, and Sweets couldn’t help but grow concerned. Was she in trouble for something? A cold sensation gripped his heart, _Is Strauss making her join the team on their case?_

“What?” the profiler finally spoke up again, sounding shocked, “But you said…” she trailed off. “Oh, uh, yes, it is,” she agreed with the woman on the other end of the call. “No—” she added a second later, “protective custody required relocation, and Sweets just got settled. We didn’t want…” A pause. “Yes, ma’am, it’s not perfect, but one is better than nothing.”

Sweets couldn’t help but feel a little awkward about accidentally listening in on a conversation about himself. It felt… well, not intrusive, as it was _about him,_ but more… strange. Disjointed. _Wrong_.

Whatever Strauss said next had Emily straightening away from the counter, eyes a little wide. “You mean, you want me to officially work the case?” she asked with a note of disbelief in her voice.

Lance found he was just as dumbfounded as his friend. Last he heard, Strauss had been pissed beyond belief at the team only accepting local cases. He had gotten the impression that she didn’t believe he was in any real danger, but if she was asking Prentiss to officially work the case…

“Right. That makes sense,” the profiler continued, turning her back on the counter and her coffee as she did so, ending up directly facing Lance. Her eyes widened upon seeing him, but she continued without missing a beat, “So if the Jeffersonian taskforce requires aid, I have a green light?” After a short pause, a smile broke out across her face, “Yes, ma’am; of course.”

Lance felt something in his chest relax at the sight of that smile. It sounded like Emily wouldn’t just be officially on the case she was protecting him from, but would be able to help with Gormogon as well.

The profiler moved forward, phone still pressed to her ear as she listened to her section chief. She came to a stop just in front of Sweets, a smile still firmly in place. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your support,” Emily addressed Strauss a great deal more warmly than before. She caught Lance’s eyes as she spoke, a clear question on her face, “And I could, but he’s here now, if you’d prefer to tell him yourself.”

His eyes went comically wide. He felt off balance as Prentiss nodded to herself (or maybe to Strauss, even though she couldn’t see?) and offered the phone to him. He hesitated for what felt like an eternity but what was likely only a few seconds before carefully accepting the plain black piece of technology. “Uh, hello, Chief Strauss,” Sweets stuttered into the phone.

“Dr. Sweets,” the strong voice of the stately woman echoed over the line, “I hope you are as well as possible, considering the circumstances.”

Lance blinked, “Yeah, um, thanks.”

After an awkward pause, Strauss cleared her throat, “Down to business then. I wanted to apologize; I understand the severity of your situation, and I value your safety and wellbeing. The simple fact is, however, that the BAU is too crucial to be grounded in one location.”

“I understand,” he murmured, attempting to hold back the panic that was once again rising in his throat and stealing his breath. Emily moved closer, eyebrows furrowed.

“My intention was for the BAU to return to work, and for you to relocate somewhere safe,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Suddenly unable to stay standing, Sweets reached blindly for the nearest wall. A moment later, Prentiss appeared at his elbow, hovering in a distinctly concerned manner.

Strauss let out a brief sigh, “I should never have expected you to submit to protective custody. And I should never have expected the team to simply move on. I realize that mistake now.”

Stunned by what he was hearing—Strauss? Admitting she was wrong??—Lance turned to stare at Emily, speechless. Upon seeing his face, the profiler simply smiled, relief clear on her face and amusement twinkling in her eyes.

“Agent Prentiss will remain with you,” the section chief continued, ignorant of his confusion, “As far as the Bureau is concerned, she is working part time from off site, since what the team has chosen to do is not officially… allowed.” She paused briefly, and Sweets wondered if he should respond. Before he could formulate a response, however, Strauss barreled on, “She will consult on cases that need her expertise, but her primary function will be to protect you and track down the Ghost.” (Sweets flinched slightly at the mention of his former torturer.) “I will notify Agent Hotchner of the change. I imagine the entire team will be relieved,” she sounded distinctly exasperated.

Silence fell across the line; still utterly shocked, Lance was at a loss on how to respond. Sensing the whirlwind of emotions swirling through him, Emily gently squeezed his shoulder.

“Dr. Sweets?” a slightly worried voice echoed over the phone.

Startled into action, Sweets cleared his throat and attempted to respond, “I, uh… I don’t… I mean, thank you?” it came out as a question, against his will.

“Would you prefer another arrangement?” Strauss asked the potentially confrontational question with such honest emotion (though it was so foreign, Lance couldn’t place _what_ emotion it was), that Lance was once again shocked to the core.

“N-no, ma’am,” he stuttered out, “This is, uh… more than I ever…” he trailed off, overwhelmed and unable to continue.

“Very well,” the section chief agreed after another long beat of silence, “In that case, I wish you and the Jeffersonian taskforce luck at tracking down Gormogon. And please tell Agent Prentiss I wish her and Analyst Garcia luck with your case.”

“Right, uh, thank you, ma’am,” Sweets managed to get out.

Strauss let out one last farewell and hung up before he could even muster the brain power to formulate an appropriate response. For a long moment, Sweets stood there like an idiot with the phone still pressed firmly to his ear; he was stunned and baffled, a whirlwind of relief and confusion muffling his ability to think like a dense fog.

He was snapped back to reality by Emily moving so she was directly in front of him. After examining his face closely for a few seconds, her smile widened and she carefully pried the phone away from his face and out of his hand. She slipped the sleek piece of technology into her pocket before pulling him into a firm hug. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, uncaring of his stiffness, tucking her head over his shoulder and squeezing him just tight enough.

It was wonderfully grounding. He allowed his friend’s firm grip to settle the whirlwind of shock and clear the fog of confusion. Strauss’s news was unexpected and jarring, but it was so very wonderful to accept; he wasn’t, and was not _going_ to be, alone.

After a few silent seconds, Lance sagged into Emily like a puppet with his strings cut, slowly wrapping his arms around her waist, returning the hug. He didn’t know what he’d do without his family, and it seemed like he wouldn’t have to find out, after all.

Still holding him tight, Prentiss let out a sigh as she felt him relax. “I’m here, Sweets,” she murmured, echoing his thoughts, “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are the others. We’re going to figure this out. _Together_.”

He may have every reason to be afraid, but he was strong, he was loved, and he would fight.

* * *

Sweets started his day both optimistic and determined. Knowing that he had the backing of his team’s boss was a huge relief; he wouldn’t be forced to make due without his family after all. It was also a great comfort to know that Prentiss and Garcia were both allowed to continue working on his case without stretching or outright breaking protocol. He was also quite certain the others were going to be doing as much as they could around other cases too. Thus, while he did not exactly feel _safe_ , he felt both cared for and protected.

This newfound security returned the motivation he had forgotten he used to routinely possess. He would be no use on _his_ case, so… by _god_ , he was going to do everything in his power to help the Jeffersonian. There was no way Gormogon was going to hurt the group that was rapidly worming their way into his heart. Not if he could help it.

Following his impromptu and inadvertent pep talk with Strauss, Sweets sat down with all his files on the cannibal and refamiliarized himself with the case with Emily at his side, reading over his shoulder. Before long, she deposited him at the Jeffersonian and he tracked down the agent-anthropologist pair. It took a while, but he eventually discovered them in the Gormogon vault staring at the silver skeleton.

For all intents and purposes, everything seemed normal. If you discounted the cannibalistic serial killer that was targeting the team, of course. Other than that… there was the obligatory banter between the partners, the round-about discussion that skirted both gossip and investigation, Brennan’s rapid criticism of Sweets’ insights, and Booth’s pervasive and annoyingly contemplative looks… (wait—when had that one become normal?)

It was normal, that is, until the trio was making their way back to Brennan’s office from the vault.

A bone rattling boom rattled through the lab, punctuated by a brilliant flash of light and leaving an ominous cloud of smoke in its wake. Startled, the three froze for a split second, but then Booth was off like a shot towards the site of the explosion, Brennan and Sweets hot on his tail, alarms blaring loudly overhead.

The three of them approached a wall of blown out glass and began cautiously navigating the rubble. Sweets waved his hand in front of his face, futilely attempting to dispel the smoke as he watched security guards and lab workers swarm onto the site of the explosion. He could hear Hodgins calling out that he was ok, and Booth was lifting something— a sheet of plexiglass? —from the ground. He took the last step needed to see what was going on, and froze.

Zack was laying on the ground, neck craned to see his hands… his hands that were no longer recognizable. Tatters of black chemical gloves clung to the messy red remnants; blood was seeping everywhere, and Lance could very clearly see bones. The air stunk of cloying smoke and burnt plastic, but upon the sight of Zack and his irreparably damaged hands, Sweets could smell nothing but blood. His world narrowed to a pinprick, and all he could see was red. Deep dark oozing red. Hands soaked in it. Nothing but red. The hands he saw were not Zack’s, and they were not injured, but they were as red as red could be… Sweets’ stomach churned in fear and…

Someone brushed past him, jarring him from his flashback. He blinked. It was Cam, brandishing a first aid kit of some type. She rushed to Zack’s side, where Booth and Brennan were already knelt, attempting to help their friend. A few feet away, Hodgins struggled to sit up, staring at Zack in horror. The air was as saturated with panic as smoke, helplessness and fear and shock radiating through everyone present.

It was too much.

Barely conscious of what he was doing, Sweets stumbled away from the scene of the explosion. He tripped on a fallen piece of metal, disoriented as he was, and flung out his left arm in an attempt to steady himself. It managed to make contact with the frame of the now empty window and his unbalanced momentum became lancing pain as jagged glass fragments dug into his palm.

The pain brought with it a jolt of adrenaline, and as white-hot lightning lanced up him arm, he sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he needed. He was suddenly aware of the blood rushing in his ears and the tightness in his throat. The smoke made it infinitely harder to breathe, compounding his panic.

He needed out.

Driven by his fear, and displaying far more strength than he felt, Sweets stumbled through the rubble and out of the room. He almost blindly made his way towards the work station cubicles just a few torturous steps away, unknowingly clearing the way for the paramedics. Gasping for breath, he staggered behind the nearest metallic wall and slid to the ground in the corner of the cubicle.

Time ceased to mean anything; sights and sounds blurred together. Still gasping, he clamped his eyes shut and began to count. Every six numbers (or as close as he could; he wasn’t really thinking straight) he did the next step in the complicated process of breathing. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. In…. Hold…. Out….

Gradually, his breathing deepened and slowed, evening out, and the rushing in his ears began to fade. As his hearing returned, a cacophony of sound broke through; voices—pleading…shouting!—so many voices… clattering and clanging metal… just… _noise_. His breath stuttered in his throat and his eyes flew open, but the blinding light characteristic of the lab met him, grounding him in the moment. After a few seconds, his breathing settled again.

Sound continued to echo around him, but it faded to the background. Instead, Lance continued to breathe and began to observe his surroundings. The smoke was gone. The alarms had stopped. His spatial awareness returned, and the world came back into focus. With his increased clarity, he became aware of a vague throbbing in his palm. Unthinking, he glanced down at where his hands rested in his lap.

It was a huge mistake.

His left hand was a mangled bloody mess.

Once again, red saturated his vision… and this time he was thrown head first into the flashback he had avoided by the skin of his teeth just a few minutes prior.

Red hands. Smooth unblemished skin dripping with the viscous fluid, smearing it onto everything they touched, Lance’s arms and face, wiping away his tears, breaking open fresh scabs, tracing lines across his heaving chest…. Glinting knives, dulled by oozing liquid, dripping red. Eerily white cloth turned pink, nearly glowing in the low light shining from a single lamp. Cloying darkness, stifling fear. Pain. Screams, _his_ screams, ripped from his own throat but sounding as though they were miles away. Salt on his cheeks and iron in his nose. Needles and thread, stinging alcohol, the _pull_ …

 _No_ , Lance forced the thought to crystallize through the numbing haze of remembered terror, _this isn’t real_.

And, oh, that voice— _his_ voice —deep and amused, smooth, almost musical as it narrates every slice of the knife, every pull of the needle, every thought in _his_ head…

 _No_ , he grappled with the memories, _I’m not there. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not…_ He drowned out the phantom pain and the echoing fear with the repetitive thought, _I’m_ not _._

“Dr. Sweets?” a concerned voice penetrated his internalized struggle, “Lance?”

A moment later, a weight landed on his shoulder. He flinched violently. The motion caused him to bump into the wall by his shoulder and helped jostle him enough that his thoughts screeched to a stop and his hyperventilation was interrupted. That was good. Though…holding his breath wasn’t exactly ideal either.

“Oh, god,” the voice came again, “Lance, if you can hear me, you’re at the Jeffersonian.” After a pause, they—no. She…she continued, “You’re safe. Everything is under control. There was an accident with one of Zack and Hodgins’ experiments, and something exploded, but everyone is alive. Zack is on his way to the hospital; he’s going to be alright.”

The calm collected tone (so different from _his_ ) and the bare clear facts were soothing. His eyes refocused and, although he was greeted with the sight of his mangled hand once again, he remained calm. He reoriented his reality and allowed Cam’s —it was Cam’s— voice to wash over him.

“The smoke is almost gone, and security has the area secured,” she powered on. “Hodgins, Brennan, and Angela are all going to the hospital with Zack. Um,” Cam faltered, “the explosion happened about fifteen minutes ago… and,” she stuttered to a stop.

Breathing settled and mind more firmly seated in the present, Sweets dragged his eyes away from his lap to look up at the coroner. Her brows were furrowed in concern, her eyes bright with something akin to fear or panic, and her mouth was moving wordlessly as she struggled to continue her narration.

“Thanks,” he managed in a hoarse whisper, twitching his lips in a way that suggested an attempt to smile.

Her eyes darted across his face, the panic retreating from her eyes, “Welcome back, Lance.”

He let out a huff of air that was almost a chuckle, lips twitching upwards for a brief moment.

Slowly, clearly telegraphing her movement, Cam reached out to clasp his shoulder and give it a slight squeeze. “That looks pretty bad,” she commented, nodding at his hand without moving her gaze from his eyes, “How about we go find a paramedic?”

Unspeakably thankful that she clearly intended to get him moving _and_ go with him, he managed a genuine smile and nodded. She smiled back and stood, offering a hand to him. He cradled his left hand close and accepted her offer with his uninjured one, allowing her to pull him to his feet and steady him as the blood rushed to his head and his balance went wonky. With one last comforting squeeze of his hand, Cam set off across the lab.

Before long, he was following in her wake as they exited the building and descended the impressive flight of steps to the fleet of waiting emergency vehicles. Cam waved down a passing paramedic, holding herself in a way that reminded Sweets of Hotch, and he was rapidly herded onto the back bumper of an ambulance. Someone wrapped an orange blanket around his shoulders, and someone else began deftly and efficiently cleaning his hand. (Lance swallowed back the unease the clinical motions ignited in his chest, focusing on the noise and flashing lights that surrounded them instead.)

The medic was finishing the last wrap on his thoroughly bandaged, numbed, and stitched hand when a familiar voice came from beside the ambulance, “Lance! There you are.” Emily hurried over to his side, giving the paramedic and the still hovering coroner a smile and nod in greeting.

The paramedic returned the gesture before giving Lance a clap on the shoulder and moving off to the next task. Cam just gave her a weary look, “It’s good to see you, Agent Prentiss.”

“Dr. Saroyan,” the profiler returned warmly, before glancing between Lance, his hand, and the coroner, “What happened?” Her voice was heavy with concern. (Sweets was so very tired of everyone being concerned…)

Cam gave a helpless shrug, but Lance drew his attention away from his hand to give his friend a reassuring smile, “I’m pretty sure I fell into a broken window frame. I’m ok, Em.”

The profiler gave him a piercing look, but she didn’t press the issue. “What about the explosion?” she turned the majority of her attention to the Jeffersonian team leader.

“One of Zack and Hodgins’ experiments,” Cam sighed, “blew up. They’re both on their way to the hospital.”

Lance gave the scientist a sympathetic look at the reminder, but —to both of their surprise— Emily’s face crinkled in fury. She let out a frustrated growl, turning to glare at the building that stood behind her, as though it was the source of all the evil in the world. “ _Goddamn_ serial killers,” she hissed.

Like a bucket of ice cold water being dumped over his head, Lance felt a chill race down his spine and the blood drain from his face. Beside him, Cam let out a strangle noise of surprise.

Gormogon.

It wasn’t an accident; it was _Gormogon_.

Emily, face cold but eyes burning, turned back to them, the picture of determination. It was clear that she had already claimed this case, setting her eyes upon the cannibal. “This has to stop,” she declared.

Despite the chill freezing his breath in his throat and the tangle of misguided guilt and sorrow sitting in his chest, Lance was in complete agreement with his friend. His new team had gotten hurt. This would not stand. He was afraid, yes; there was no way he could forget about the man hunting him. But he was a BAU profiler, and he protected his own.

He wrapped his newfound determination around himself like armor.

Gormogon was done for. He may not know it yet, but he had a team of capable scientists and investigators and, now, _two_ extraordinary profilers on his tail.

He wouldn’t see them coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all once again for sticking with me. Please let me know what you think!  
> Additionally, (this is a bit random) I recently discovered and joined Tumblr. I mostly did it for one particular fandom, but my main blog is currently dedicated to writing stuff. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to do with it, but if any of you want to yell at me to write or ask questions about what I'm doing (etc. etc.) or maybe even prompt me to write drabbles for this series (I could start a new work on here for it and everything!), please feel free to drop me an ask or something. (anon is on, so you can talk to me even if you don't have an account)  
> [@rebaobsessions](https://rebaobsessions.tumblr.com/)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation picks up speed! Featuring a very special addition to the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I cannot believe it has taken me over TWO MONTHS to give you an update... Ack! I'm so sorry! I'm not super pleased with this chapter, but it came out alright. (The pseudo-science in the episode drove me insane and Spencer really wanted to turn into a biochemist, but I managed to *mostly* nip that in the bud...)  
> I am, however, flipping STOKED for either the next chapter or the one after that (it depends how long the interim scenes become) because the Ghost plot is gonna start picking up big time. Additionally, I've been dabbling with a side-story different POV one-shot, so if you haven't subscribed to the series yet, you might want to do that...  
> Without further ado...

The following 24 hours were utter chaos. Sweets went to the hospital to receive pain and antibiotic medication. While there, Emily pinned down Booth and Brennan, revealed her suspicions about the explosion, and offered her aid (read: demanded to be included) in the case. Sweets chose to return to the Hoover building for the afternoon, despite the days events, as he couldn’t imagine returning to the lab yet and there was no way Emily would let him go home alone—and he knew how much she wanted to be a part of the investigation. He occupied his time analyzing Goromogon’s profile and, when it became too much, filling out paperwork for a variety of sessions and psychological assessments he had performed over the past several days. (He also rescheduled all of his meetings for the next three days.)

Upon Emily’s arrival, and over the course of the trip back to his apartment, he was brought back up to speed on the investigation. It had definitely been Gormogon; the explosion was a distraction to cut the security systems and make off with the silver skeleton. It was an inside job—it had to be—which meant Gormogon’s apprentice worked at the Jeffersonian. An FBI tech and Hodgins had both identified the source of the explosion as tricyclic acetone peroxide, a highly explosive compound that had been switched for the monomer Zack was _supposed_ to be adding to the polymethylmethacrylate (the plastic base for the denture experiment). Hodgins was understandably upset about it.

Needless to say, everyone had gone on high alert, and Booth had called in the big guns. The FBI had the lab locked down. They were scouring every inch of the place for clues, and Cam was at her wits end. Everyone was determined to do their absolute best, but the coroner had put her foot down and sent everyone off to rest. They couldn’t do much right now, and it had been a hard day for everyone.

What caught Lance’s attention most was the tidbit Emily shared as they walked through his front door: the BAU team was home. Prentiss had immediately requested their aid (with Booth’s support and Brennan’s protests), but Strauss had unsurprisingly shot her down. But, also unsurprisingly, the team was having none of that, so—after a hefty four-sided debate—Strauss conceded to allow one more team member help the Jeffersonian. Apparently, Morgan nearly threw a fit when Hotch chose Reid instead of him.

Sweets would have paid to see that.

The following morning was just as busy. Lance was still hesitant to visit the lab, but the knowledge that Reid would be arriving at any time was enough to tempt the therapist into accompanying Emily to the scene of the investigation

The lab was swarming with its normal activity, but there was a scattering of people clad in familiar suits and jackets with “FBI” branded in bright yellow across the back as well. They were poking around the lab, carting evidence hither and yon, and hovering over the shoulders of the various employees still working despite the utter chaos. As Sweets ventured farther, Prentiss at his side, he caught sight of Hodgins glaring a hole into the side of the nearest agent and Saroyan standing just outside her office with an arm crossed over her chest and the other holding a phone to her ear. Upon spotting her, Prentiss immediately altered her trajectory, Sweets following a heartbeat later. It wasn’t long before Sweets could hear the coroner was checking on the injured member of their team. (The thought of Zack sent a pang of… something through him, and Sweets held back a wince).

Cam let out a gusty sigh, “I guess that’s all we can hope for, right now.” After a moment, she glanced up, her eyebrows twitching upwards for a split second upon noticing their approach. Prentiss lifted a hand in greeting and Cam gave her a nod in return.

She gave a brief smile at whatever she heard on the phone, “I’ll be by in a few hours to rotate with you,” she paused, listening, and her smile softened, “Thanks, Angela.” The smile stayed on her face as she hung up and turned to the pair who had reached her side, “Good morning.”

Emily smiled back, warm and friendly, “Morning, Cam.” Sweets felt himself raise his eyebrows at that; apparently, they’d moved past ‘Dr. Saroyan’ and ‘Agent Prentiss’ after the explosion yesterday.

Cam smiled in amusement at Sweets, as though she could tell what he was thinking, before her expression fell slightly, a concerned light in her eyes, “How are you doing, Lance?”

Sweets couldn’t help doing a double take, giving the scientist a baffled look, before yesterday came flooding back. He winced— how could he have forgotten what she had done for him? —but, thankfully, Cam didn’t seem all that bothered; she was busy eyeing his thoroughly wrapped hand with a surprising amount of concern. “I, uh, I’m fine,” he managed a little awkwardly, “It’s much better, and I mean, it was my fault for not being more careful anyway.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sweets saw Prentiss glower at him—which he expected. He did not, however, expect Saroyan to give him a downright frightening glare that clearly said, ‘don’t give me that bullshit.’ Despite that, she simply said, “I’m glad your hand is feeling better, at least,” and simply left it alone.

Sweets was inordinately grateful that she didn’t push, or—heaven forbid—bring up his panic attack.

“So,” Emily smoothly caught Cam’s attention, “What did I miss?”

As the coroner began giving his friend an overview of what they had discovered—or rather, what they had _not_ discovered—since last night, Lance examined her. She looked like she’d been up all night, with dark bags under her eyes that weren’t quite masked by hastily applied makeup. Her hair was up, as usual, but was a little more frazzled than he was used to seeing on her. But, despite everything —despite the obvious emotional and physical stress she was under— she still seemed as unflappable as ever.

And for some reason, she was able to spare the bandwidth to be worried about _him_.

Honestly, Sweets was taken aback by her reaction. He had… assumed she would avoid the topic. After all she didn’t know him, and he had basically broken down in front of her. _She shouldn’t have had to deal with that_ , a poisonous voice whispered in the back of his mind, _it was a completely uncalled for reaction to an accident that put her friend in the hospital!_

He shook those thoughts off quickly. He couldn’t control what had already happened, he could only move forward. Cam had seen him in the throws of one of his worst flashbacks in months. Nothing could change that. Sure, she did _not_ need the added stress of knowing how… broken he really was. Not on top of Gormogon and Zack’s injury. But she did, for better or worse, and had even helped him through it. And, well, she obviously cared, and Lance would appreciate that for what it meant; he was finding a place here, in the Jeffersonian family, and he truly was making the friends he had hoped for from the beginning.

He only wished it was under different circumstances.

Cam and Emily were still deep in conversation, seemingly debating the best approach to take with the investigation today, but Sweets found he didn’t really care enough to pay attention. Regardless of their decision, he would end up profiling— since that was what he could do best, and the rest was (thankfully) out of his hands. Even the concerned looks they each threw his way weren’t enough to make him engage in the conversation. He just… let his mind wander, cataloging what had been discovered yesterday with the profile he had started on Gormogon months ago. He did not, however, get very far.

“Hey! What are you doing with that?” a familiar voice —belonging to the very person he hoped to see here— echoed from behind him, breaking through his thoughts and any remaining attention he had for the friends in front of him.

With barely a thought, Sweets whipped his head around so fast he nearly hurt his neck, quickly pinpointing his friend’s familiar figure as he leant over an agent’s shoulder. He was wearing his standard sweater vest and tie, his messenger bag slung over a shoulder and braced by one hand while the other held a white paper cup —just the same as always. The familiar sight had Lance breaking into a smile.

“That’s _evidence_ ,” he was saying, annoyance coloring his tone in a way that was rare for him. He frowned at whatever the agent said in reply, “This was an _inside job._ That means _everything_ is evidence in this case; you can’t just discard it!”

The agent straightened and turned enough so that Sweets could see his scowling face and pick out the testy reply, “And who, exactly, do you think you are?”

Reid scowled and took a breath, but before he could answer Booth appeared at their side. Sweets couldn’t help but smile as he inserted himself between them, “Whoa, there. Let’s not tear each other’s heads off, alright?”

Reid turned his glare on the other agent and bit out something Sweets couldn’t quite hear, though he _could_ make out the obvious annoyance coloring his tone.

Booth’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to the agent who was now holding the box he had been leant over a few moments ago. “He’s right, Torres,” Booth informed him, “Why don’t you take the stuff you don’t know how to classify to Myers, alright?”

The agent, Torres apparently, gave a huff before jerking his head in what appeared to be a nod and wandering off towards a cluster of agents near the entrance to the lab.

Booth turned back to Reid and extended his hand, likely introducing himself. Reid, of course, simply lifted the hand that _wasn’t_ holding his precious coffee and gave his trademark awkward wave, completely ignoring the gesture.

Sweets couldn’t help chuckling at the baffled look on the agent’s face.

A snort sounded from beside him, startling him, before Emily gave his shoulder a gentle shove, “Go on, Lance,” she grinned at him as he looked back at her. Cam was still standing there, watching them with amusement crinkling her eyes, and Sweets was struck for a moment at how much _better_ she looked opposed to just minutes ago. Before he could order his thoughts though, Prentiss let out a short laugh and pushed him again, causing him to stumble a step. “Go on,” she urged again, “it’ll be more fun to watch Spencer baffle Booth up close.”

He shot his friend a fond eye roll and retaliatory shove but took her advice and made his way over to the pair, tossing a wave and smile over his shoulder for Cam as he went. As he approached, he could see Booth’s face, and the increasing bafflement leaking across it, in greater detail. The agent didn’t seem to know what to make of the genius profiler yet. It was… very familiar. The reaction reminded Lance of the numerous agents and officers the team had encountered over his time with the BAU.

“…will be hard to sift through it all, especially considering the size of the suspect pool,” Reid’s voice became distinguishable as Lance approached the pair. He was gesturing idly with his free hand, while keeping his coffee cup close to his chest and leaning slightly forward. The sight was just as familiar as the agent’s reaction, causing the sense of nostalgia to grow. Lance would bet, despite being unable to see his face, that Reid’s eyes were alight and determined. After a quick pause to survey the activity swarming around him—as though proving his point— the profiler continued, “Behavior will likely be the easiest way to inform the direction of the investigation. I’d like to start on the profile as soon as possible.”

Booth’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, landing on Sweets, and his shocked expression melted into a slight smile. “Well,” he looked back to Reid, amusement coloring his tone, “I think the guy you want to talk to just got here.”

Reid’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to see who had caught Booth’s attention. As soon as he saw Lance, a smile broke across his face. “Lance,” he greeted warmly.

“Hey, Spence,” Sweets smiled a little awkwardly before moving closer and punching (more like pushing) Reid’s shoulder in his customary greeting.

The profiler rolled his eyes and attempted to school his face into his traditional scowl, but his smile refused to budge. After a moment, he stopped trying and just beamed at Sweets, “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he huffed a sigh, “Good to see you too. I’m glad you guys caught that HSK.”

Reid’s face twisted slightly. “If you count ‘dead’ as ‘caught’… but yes; it’s good he’s off the roads.”

“Suicide by cop?” Booth asked curiously.

“No,” he turned back to the agent, shifting his bag slightly, “Actual suicide, with a gun to the chin.” In typical Spencer fashion, he made an aborted gesture towards his chin as he spoke.

Booth grimaced at that. Sweets had to agree; it was always disappointing and unpleasant when you couldn’t bring the unsub to justice. But, well… dead was better than free.

A moment of awkward silence descended, Sweets shifting his weight back and forth uneasily while Booth examined the two profilers before him. Thankfully Reid broke the silence before too long, awkwardly clearing his throat and hiking his bag farther up his shoulder, “Anyway, we should get started.”

Booth blinked as though he had completely forgotten the reason they were there, “Right.” He turned to Sweets, “Don’t s’pose you’ve got your files on you?”

The therapist offered a slight smile, “I’ve got what we need, yeah. I figured you’d want to keep the investigation contained.”

The agent gave him a wry smile, “Yeah; it’d be best to keep everything nearby for the time being.” He turned back to Reid, “What you need?”

“Just a place that…” the genius shrugged glancing around, “doesn’t present as high a probability of getting run over.”

“Sure thing,” Booth chuckled warmly and gestured over his shoulder, “I’m sure you can use Bones’ office.”

Reid gave his thanks and immediately set off, but Lance found himself hesitating for a reason he couldn’t quite place. Though… the longer he hovered with his momentum caught between one step and the next, the more he noticed how… lost his ex-patient appeared. Booth was all about hands-on investigations and hard evidence. _This_ investigation had no concrete evidence and no solid leads, even with hordes of agents swarming every feasible crime scene and picking them over with a fine-tooth comb.

“Agent Booth,” Lance found himself speaking before he had solidified his thoughts, “I… I don’t suppose you’d, well… like to join us? We could always use fresh eyes, and I wouldn’t mind walking you through the basics while Spencer gets up to speed on Gormogon.”

The next split second was an image Lance suspected he’d never forget, as it contained two of his favorite reactions. Booth looked utterly gob smacked, like he had been blindsided by a flying tackle, while Spencer, who had halted a few feet behind the agent and was clearly visible over his shoulder, gave Lance one of his brightest smiles that practically radiated approval and joy. It didn’t last long; Spencer quickly schooled his expression into a more neutral (yet still very real smile), and Booth’s expression morphed back into his normal friendly grin (although it had a new curious edge to it), but Sweets couldn’t help being delighted anyway.

Once he had successfully squashed his surprise, the agent gave a little shrug of his shoulders, “Sure, Sweets. Why not? I don’t have anything else I can do right now.”

As the three investigators made their way across the lab to Brennan’s office, Lance allowed himself to bask in the warm feeling sitting in his chest. There was just something about Cam expressing her concern and Booth being so willing to help that settled something—a churning mass of… anxiety?— that had kept him off kilter since the explosion the previous night. Sure, things were _awful_ right now, but at least this new team seemed to care about him as much as he cared about them.

* * *

By mid-morning, Sweets was ensconced on the couch in Dr. Brennan’s office, surrounded by mounds of paper files, several computers, and two very determined agents. Oh—and a very pissed off anthropologist. Brennan had not been pleased to find the profilers invading her office upon her return from whatever she had been doing; she had nearly kicked them out before Booth managed to convince her to let them stay.

Early on in their research binge, Spencer had called up Garcia and set her on the Jeffersonian staff and their deepest darkest secrets. Shortly thereafter Emily had poked her nose in. Lance couldn’t remember what she had said—as he had been too preoccupied with breaking down the profile he had first made _ages_ ago and walking Booth through the more important details, explaining the mechanics of profiling when he could—but he _did_ remember she was going… somewhere to do _something_ to help, and that Booth seemed to approve. Sweets was rather pleased he had decided to stay; the older agent soaked up the new information like some sort of sponge. Sweets wasn’t exactly _surprised_ —he knew Booth was a great deal smarter than he portrayed himself—but he was rather pleased with how much effort he was putting forth.

Currently, the pair was making serious headway through the impromptu profiling lesson, bent over the coffee table together. Of to the side, Reid was in his element, seated in the eye of the paperwork hurricane, flipping through files at a neck breaking speed, muttering under his breath as he sifted through piles of information. Lance, who was the closest to the genius, was barely outside of the chaos and was terrified of disturbing one of his many piles of files and notes. On the other hand, Brennan was picking away at something or another at her computer, flipping through paper files every so often and glaring at the group taking over the more comfortable seating area of her office at least once a minute. (It was… a little amusing.)

They had just gotten to the point where the agent was grasping the details Sweets was seeing and how that translated into predicting behavior when Reid sat up ramrod straight with a wordless exclamation, vigorously circling something on his paper. Three sets of eyes immediately turned to the profiler as he carefully shifted forward in his seat to hand his discovery to Lance, somehow without disturbing his organized chaos. (From behind her desk, Brennan let out a disgruntled noise that accurately conveyed her disgust.)

Mildly confused, Lance accepted the paper all the same. It was… a map, covered in familiar dots, with one section outlined in broad deep strokes. It looked almost like one of Reid’s trademark geographical profiles, but there weren’t _nearly_ enough data points plotted out for the genius to have already circled a probable neighborhood for the unsub to live. From his spot leaning over the therapist’s shoulder, Booth voiced his own confusion, “Uhh… I think you’re gonna have to explain this to the new guy, Doc.”

“Right here,” Spencer leaned forward eagerly, miraculously ignoring the nickname, and pointed at the circled area, knocking a cascade of paper off the table in the process.

“Not really helping, Spence,” Sweets admitted, squinting at the spot his friend pointed out, “How did you determine this? You only have a handful of locations to work off, even if the unsub is obsessed with patterns and symbols.”

“Dr. Hodgins,” the profiler explained excitedly, “He did an analysis of the water the jaw was boiled in last night. The lead content suggests it was done in water from this neighborhood.”

Realization dawned on Lance like a bucket of ice water as he eyed the rough triangle sketched around the localized area, “And it fits.”

Reid nodded eagerly, “It’s far from certain, considering how little data I have to work with, but based on what I’d guess with what we _do_ have…. I’m comfortable positing that the unsub lives in this neighborhood.”

“Wait, wait,” Booth leant forward, taking the map from Lance’s unresisting hands and turning it this way and that as though it would help him understand what it meant, “What’s this?”

“It’s a geographical profile,” Sweets said before his friend could open his mouth, “Reid specializes in them.”

“Basically,” the profiler jumped in, “it uses locational data combined with what we know about the unsub’s behavior to predict what areas they are familiar with. It is effective in narrowing the suspect pool to a more manageable size, particularly in cases where the unsub appears to have no connection to their victims.”

“That—Hodgins _lives_ there,” Brennan spoke suddenly, startling Sweets out of smiling proudly at his friend. Somehow, she had gotten out from behind her desk without him noticing and was leant over her partners shoulder, frowning at the map.

Spencer nodded, seemingly unsurprised by both her appearance and her revelation, “There was a note of that, yes.”

Booth gave the profiler a somber look, “That means he’s our top suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he immediately refuted, frowning at the agent, “Not only has Garcia already cleared him, but he doesn’t fit the profile.”

Brennan frowned at him, looking torn between abject disapproval and something akin to hope, “You can’t ignore the evidence.”

“I’m not,” the genius gave her an affronted look, “Based on the behavioral profile, the unsub is a dominant personality that feels unseen and slighted, is obsessed with the idea of secret societies and the spiritual strength supposedly gained from consuming human flesh, and lives in this neighborhood,” he paused to lean forward and tap the map in Booth’s hands, “He is intelligent and capable. However, the likelihood of him working at the Jeffersonian is low; he is fixated on this team and he would have been unable to resist the temptation to use his position to his advantage before now.”

“It’s his _apprentice_ who works here,” Lance agreed quietly, observing the agent-anthropologist pair. They obviously weren’t distinguishing between Gormogon and his apprentice as much as they should. “We’re looking for someone young, with a more submissive personality, who is easily guided and manipulated. Dr. Hodgins is none of those things.”

“That’s a relief,” Booth commented, relaxing slightly as he absorbed their argument, “but it does leave us back at square one.”

“Not quite,” Spencer disagreed again, pulling out his phone, “I’ll let Garcia know to do a background check on all the residents of the area.”

Brennan turned to Booth and started complaining about the unreliable methods they were using, but Sweets tuned them and Reid out, frowning to himself. All the talk about the apprentice and the differences in his profile when compared to Gorm—the unsub, he found himself stuck on something.

Why did the apprentice do so _little_?

Yes, the explosion was incredibly damaging, but it was just one incident, staged solely as a distraction. If they truly worked here, though, wouldn’t they be able to cause so much _more_ damage? Less _noticeable_ damage?

“Lance?” Reid’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced up to find all three of them staring at him. Apparently, he had been thinking long enough for Reid to finish his call and refocus the agent and anthropologist.

He gave a sheepish smile, “Sorry.”

Reid immediately shook his head, frowning slightly. “No, what were you thinking? Anything could help,” he gently reminded Sweets of how this type of thing worked in the BAU. They shared every little thought, because _anything_ could lead to a realization that could break the case.

“I just…” Lance shrugged and huffed a sigh, “I can’t help wondering. I mean, the apprentice planted the tricyclic acetone peroxide in one of the most secure storage areas in the Jeffersonian… so what else did they have access to? What else did they _do_?”

Booth and Spencer both nodded and frowned in thought, obviously agreeing and considering the possibility, but Brennan…. After a moment of silence, her standard look of disgusted disinterest, which she wore whenever Sweets was presenting a hypothesis, melted into a wide-eyed look of startled realization. “The color,” she breathed, nearly jumping out of her chair and startling all three investigators. By the time the others gathered their wits and got to their feet she was already out the door, booking it across the lab.

“Wait, Bones,” Booth called, jogging out of the office to catch up with her.

Exchanging a look, Sweets and Reid hurried out of the office on his heels.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier!” Brennan exclaimed, “It’s too _light_.”

“What’s too light?” Booth finally slowed to a fast walk beside her.

Brennan gave her partner an annoyed look, “The _jaw_.”

Beside Sweets, Reid let out a surprised noise, followed by and excited, “ _Oh_.” The therapist gave his friend a side-eye but was unable to determine anything beside the fact that he was excited by whatever idea Brennan was exploring. Which… did not help him, whatsoever.

“Cam!” Brennan called, pulling ahead of her partner and waving down the coroner, who stopped mid stride and gave the rapidly approaching group a baffled look. “Do you still have the tissue you used for the DNA test?”

The other scientist blinked at her for a long moment, “Uh, yeah. I do.”

“I need to see it,” Brennan announced, not breaking stride as she hurried past her supervisor and made a beeline through the various agents and scientists wandering around the lab, “And I need to look at the complete test results, as well.”

“Ok,” she agreed easily, turning to follow the anthropologist to her own office, “Why?”

“She needs to check the quality of the DNA,” Reid spoke up from behind the coroner, “to check for any characteristic damage, such as thymine dimers. Although, I don’t know why she wants to see the tissue itself,” he muttered the last bit, frowning at Brennan’s back.

The group filed into the office, Sweets venturing in last, still utterly confused. Cam hurried to Brennan’s side to let her onto the computer and pull up several images, while Reid and Booth moved to peer over their shoulders. Booth’s face was twisted in confusion, but Cam and Spencer both looked rather eager.

After a moment of rearranging the various windows, Brennan leant forward and pointed to a peak on one of the graphs, “There! In the content analysis.” She slid her finger across the screen and pointed out what appeared to be indistinguishable black granulation to Sweets. “And here,” she glanced at the others, “in the tissue stain.”

Cam narrowed her eyes at the screen before turning to stare at the anthropologist. “You think the jaw bone was exposed to ultraviolet light?” she asked, a note of surprise in her voice, “Why would Gormogon do that?”

“He didn’t do it to any of the other remains,” Sweets pointed out idly from the background, still feeling a little lost with the abrupt change in scenery.

Reid nodded, giving Lance a bright smile, “It’s unique to this victim, which means there’s something _different_ about his procedure this time around.” He turned to Cam, “So, if _Gormogon_ doesn’t use UV light, who does?”

Brennan gave Reid a surprised and grudgingly respectful look, “We do.” She turned her attention to Cam as well, “It’s standard procedure for skeletal remains when we put them away for storage.”

“Whoa, hold up,” Booth interjected, “Are you saying the lobbyist is _here_?”

Brennan shrugged, “We have over 10,000 sets of remains waiting to be identified. What better place to hide a skeleton?”

Lance could almost feel the realization and dread wash over the group, his own stomach dropping. _Thousands_ of remains, a labyrinth of unidentified bones, all here, in the Jeffersonian. And there may be _evidence_ somewhere in that mess.

After a beat, Cam let out a low groan and voiced his thoughts, “How do we sift through 10,000 sets of remains?”

After a beat of baffled silence, Spencer cocked his head slightly, “Well, logically speaking, with lots of people. Though I don’t know where you’d be able to find a crowd of individuals qualified to analyze thousands of remains in the hope of finding bones that don’t belong.”

Brenan’s face, once again staring at Reid, was... priceless. It was cross between respect and something akin to constipation, and Lance had never seen anything like it. It was baffling and delightful; Brennan had been so set on disliking Reid on the grounds of his chosen field, but it appeared she was losing that battle.

After a long moment of Brennan examining Spencer, who was frowning as though trying to solve a puzzle (while Booth and Cam stared at Brennan, and Lance stared at _all_ of them), the anthropologist huffed and pulled out her phone, “I need to get my grad students here.” As she pressed the piece of technology to her ear, she turned to Cam, “I need someone to help organize their search once they arrive.”

Cam blinked, “Right. I’ll…” she took a step back, “I’ll go tell Caroline and ask Angela to help.”

Lane was still rather baffled and confused, but he found he was also hopeful. As he watched Cam disappear into the chaos of the lab and Dr. Brennan steamroll whoever was on the other side of her call, Sweets felt like they just might have a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me and my unpredictability! I always hate that I can't give you more regular updates.  
> Please comment, tell me what you think, what you want to see (etc etc)... and also feel free to come yell at me on my tumblr, if that's more your speed. I'm [@rebaobsessions](https://rebaobsessions.tumblr.com/) and [@rebaobsessivelywrites](https://rebaobsessivelywrites.tumblr.com/).  
> I've got a fair bit plotted out for this still, and I hope to have the next chapter up soon (although I refuse to make any promises as that never goes my way).  
> Thank you all, once again, for reading!!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gormogon is caught and Sweets gets a package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOODNESS!!! I'm FINALLY done with Gormogon. I hope I did it justice.  
> Small warning... The end of this chapter is bad. Like... really really bad. And a slight cliff hanger. So. Brace yourself.

Following Brennan’s revelation, nothing really changed. Sweets was quick to determine he would be of little help in the search of the bone room and Reid must have reached a similar conclusion because they both retreated to their piles of files. Booth joined them briefly, but before long he got a call and disappeared, leaving the profilers to their work. Lance lost track of time, but at some point Emily rejoined them, announcing the lead she had been following as a spectacular dead end.

Together the three profilers swept through the gathered information and refined as many details on both Gormogon and his apprentice as they could, before turning to the suspect lists Garcia had compiled for them. The profiles were not nearly as refined as they’d like, but the image was clear. Now all they had to do was find a match.

It was easier said than done.

They were collectively about halfway through the lists when Dr. Brennan came sweeping into her office. She had a deep frown on her face, visibly upset—the most upset that Sweets had ever witnessed, save for when Booth was shot. The average person might mistake her expression for one of deep thought, but Lance knew Brennan well enough by now to know the difference.  Prentiss attempted to speak with her, but the anthropologist didn’t even acknowledge the profilers’ existence, simply digging through her desk until she found the file she was looking for and sweeping back out into the lab and—by the looks of it—onto the platform.

Baffled, the three continued to work through the suspect list, narrowing down the potential culprits, but their attention was divided now, watching the anthropologist hunched over a work station. (Well, _Reid_ wasn’t distracted—very little _ever_ distracted him—so it was just Sweets and Prentiss observing the distressed scientist.) A few minutes later, Cam and Ms. Julian approached her and were rapidly brushed off as Brennan abandoned one work station for another. The two women glanced at each other in blatant confusion but left the genius to her own devices.

Sweets was now openly staring, Emily at his side, and Cam caught their looks as she descended from the platform. After a brief moment of hesitation, she altered her course of direction and gave them a strained smile through the glass window as she approached.

“Hey, Cam,” Prentiss greeted as the exhausted medical examiner poked her head through the door, “Is everything alright?”

“We found the lobbyist in bone storage,” she sighed, “which is _something_.”

Reid’s head snapped up from his work. “Is it confirmed?” he asked curiously.

Cam nodded, “DNA matches.”

“Is Dr. Brennan alright?” Lance asked, worry churning low in his gut.

“I don’t know. She rushed back up here to look at something, and now she’s saying Zack was wrong about the marks on the mandible—that they’re not from artificial dentures,” she gave a slight wince, glancing over her shoulder at the scientist, “She seems really upset about it.”

Prentiss gave both the Cam and the anthropologist visible over her shoulder a sympathetic look, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Cam nodded and shrugged, “Yeah, but _Zack_? That’s not common.”

Lance swallowed hard at the truth in that statement, the feeling of unease seeming to grow in his chest. _It can’t be…. Can it?_ What if it wasn’t a mistake? If Zack had falsified evidence, if he had _lied_ …

After a moment of strained silence, Cam seemed to shake herself and gave the group a smile, “Anyway, speaking of Zack, I need to get over to the hospital; we need Hodgins back here looking for trace evidence. I’ll see you later.”

The profilers said goodbye and gave her their regards for Zack, but once the coroner disappeared silence descended once again. None of them returned to their suspect lists either, they just sat there, eyebrows furrowed in thought, staring at each other.

“Young, impressionable, intelligent,” Emily broke the silence first.

Spencer met her eyes, “Works at the Jeffersonian, with access to secure areas and information on the investigation; has the sufficient knowledge to not _only_ be aware of a pertinent experiment, but to also tamper with said experiment in order to cause an explosion.”

“Zack,” Sweets whispered, horrified his friends had come to the same conclusion he had.

Wordlessly, Emily fished out her phone and pressed a button, filling the room with ringing. A moment later it clicked, and a familiar voice filtered through the line, “You’ve reached the Queen of All Knowledge! Speak, my subjects.”

“Hey, Garcia,” a slight smile crept onto Prentiss’ face, “You’ve been cross-referencing our lead suspects for connections, right?”

“I have, indeed!” the peppy analyst declared, “I’ve got nothing for you, yet, I’m afraid to say.”

Reid leant forward, “We need you to focus on a new lead.”

“You have my attention, 187.”

The genius profiler was about to continue, but Lance cut in, “Dr. Zack Addy.”

“Wait,” Penelope started, “Isn’t that the kid who got blown up?”

Sweets swallowed around the tightness in his chest, “Yes.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured, “You don’t think—”

“We may have eliminated him preemptively,” Reid interrupted, “Dr. Brennan appears to believe he purposefully reported incorrect evidence.”

Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sweets glanced over his shoulder at the anthropologist in question. She was still on the platform, a deep frown set into her face as she peered at…whatever she was examining. It was not an encouraging look.

“We might be wrong,” Prentiss placed a hand on his shoulder as she continued, squeezing reassuringly and redirecting his attention back to the conversation. She turned back to the phone, “But until we find a better hit against our profiles, he’s out best bet. Garcia, we need you see if he has any connections with residents in Gormogon’s suspected neighborhood—except Dr. Hodgins, that is.”

“I hate to say it, but what if it _is_ …” the tech analyst almost whispered across the line.

Lance shook his head vehemently even though she couldn’t see him, “He doesn’t fit the profile, and even if he did, he and Zack couldn’t _both_ be our unsubs; they were at the explosion _together_.”

“Ok, fair point, Lancelot,” she murmured, sounding a little relieved.

“The connection will be something obscure, so you’ll have to dig deep,” Reid warned.

Garcia scoffed, “You called the _Queen of All Knowledge_ , my dear genius, didn’t you?”

Spencer let out a snort and rolled his eyes good naturedly. Despite the situation, even Lance couldn’t help smiling at the familiar banter.

“Just let us know when you get something, ok?” Prentiss chuckled, picking up her phone again.

“Sure thing!” she announced, “Garcia out!”

The line clicked dead, leaving them in tense silence once again. It didn’t last long, however; this time it was broken by Brennan sweeping into the office again, advancing on her computer like a SWAT assault team—fast, efficient, and more than a little intimidating.

“Dr. Brennan?” Emily ventured hesitantly, much like the last time the anthropologist swept through the room, “Did you discover something about the mandible that Zack missed?”

Brennan glanced up sharply from her computer and stared at the group, blinking a few times as though she was just now registering that they were still working in her office. After that split second her face twisted in the slightly scornful way it always did around profilers, and she gave Prentiss a once-over. Whatever she saw, however, had the instinctive fight draining from her eyes and her expression returned to the strained one she had been wearing. “He didn’t _miss_ anything,” she almost snapped, ire directed at the file on her desk.

Sweets’ stomach plummeted.

“What do you mean?” Prentiss prodded carefully.

Brennan restlessly jumped out of her chair and began pacing. “There’s no way he could have missed it. Any first year would have seen it!” she gestured emphatically at the file.

“What,” Lance swallowed hard, “What did he lie about?”

“The dentures,” she muttered almost glaring at the incriminating evidence, “were _not_ artificial. They were made from real teeth.” She looked up, meeting his eyes, “Real, human canines.”

Lance heard a sharp inhale from Emily, accurately mirroring his own shock and unease.

“Only canines?” Spencer prompted.

“Yes,” she confirmed simply, moving around her desk to show him the evidence.

Reid accepted the proffered file and frowned in thought, “That may be a symbolic choice, referencing a carnivorous animal such as a wolf or—”

“There’s a wolf on the tapestry in the Gormogon vault,” Brennan interrupted, “Certain ancient sects revere the wolf as a symbol of freedom, representative of the forces that will deliver us from persecution.”

The profiler nodded in agreement, “Yes. The wolf also represents physical strength, intelligence, and loyalty. Perhaps Gormogon believes himself to personify these characteristics and designed his dentures accordingly.”

Emily nodded, eyebrows furrowing, “He _is_ loyal to his cause of ‘setting the world free’ of secret societies, and evading of one of the best investigative teams in the country would certainly inflate his ego.”

Brennan gave them both strange looks, but for once she didn’t protest.

“Whose ego?” a voice from the door instantly redirected everyone’s attention. They found Booth giving them a smile as he walked over to join the profilers on the couch.

“Gormogon’s,” Sweets provided helpfully.

“That makes sense,” he chuckled, before looking up at Brennan, “You getting into profiling, Bones?”

The horrified look the anthropologist gave her partner was priceless.

The agent didn’t give her a chance to respond though, his face turning more serious, “I heard Zack was wrong about the dentures.”

“No,” she shook her head, indignation wiped away just as quickly, “He lied.”

He blinked at her, “What?”

Reid lent across the coffee table to offer the agent the file full of evidence, “The dentures were made entirely of human canine teeth.”

“ _What_?” he stared at the profiler, making no move to accept the file.

“Someone removed the canines from a variety of skulls in limbo and used them to make Gormogon’s dentures,” Brennan explained simply.

“And Zack—” the agent looked up at his partner with dawning horror.

After a moment of silence, Sweets shifted in his seat and whispered the rest of Booth’s thought, “Lied.”

“He did it, Booth,” Brennan stated, “ _Zack_ made the dentures.”

“He has complete access to the lab. He arranged the explosion himself,” Booth looked as unsettled as Lance felt.

“Zack is the apprentice,” Prentiss agreed.

Booth stood, “We need to go to the hospital.”

Brennan nodded in agreement, moving to collect her things.

“Wait,” Reid cut in, ruffling though the papers on the small table, pulling their work together. “Here,” he held out a small stack, “This is our most recent profile on both unsubs; it might help. We have Garcia looking for connections between Zack and any of the Gormogon suspects, but it’s unlikely she’ll find anything before you get the information from Zack.”

Booth accepted the stack with a strained smile, “Thanks.” He glanced at Sweets and Prentiss, “All of you.”

They returned the smile and watched as he turned on his heel and hurried after his partner. Once again, the room descended into tense silence, leaving the three profilers staring at each other in unease.

Sweets let out a shaky sigh and buried his face in his hands. This was _not_ how he had expected his day to go.

* * *

The hours following the revelation of Zack’s lie were filled with worry. Sweets was worried that they had made a mistake and Zack wasn’t the apprentice, worried that they weren’t and he _was_ , worried he wouldn’t know how to find Gormogon— or if he did, worried for the safety of those sent to take the insane cannibal in. Once they got word that Booth was in route to Gormogon’s house, according to Zack’s instructions, Sweets was terrified for the agent and inexplicably guilty that Zack _was_ the apprentice… which was insane because he had exactly _no_ _control_ over such a thing.

He spent the time between updates pacing a hole into the floor on the catwalk above the lab, Prentiss and Reid looking on with concern. His thoughts swirled chaotically alongside his emotions and he did his best to focus on where he was stepping instead. He was wholly invested in how this investigation turned out, not just as a profiler but as… as a _friend_. It was a terrifying feeling; he had no idea what to do. The Jeffersonian team was going to be irrevocably changed no matter what and there was _nothing_ he could do to help. He was _helpless_. Useless.

Booth called; Gormogon was dead. Ms. Julian called; Zack had been arrested, pleading guilty… and was being found _non compos mentis_. Part of Sweets was relieved about how everything had turned out, but he was also confused. Zack was _not_ insane. He could see why such a verdict would be more appealing to everyone involved… but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. (He wasn’t sure, however, if it was born from Zack “evading justice” or simply from how it all made _absolutely no sense._ )

Not long after the final update, the team returned to the lab. Spencer stayed long enough to wish them well, but he disappeared quickly. Emily followed soon after, fading into the background after receiving a call. Lance himself, however, was wordlessly pulled into the group huddled around the table as they poured over Zack’s keepsakes and mourned the loss of a friend. The therapist hadn’t known the doctor well, but even he mourned the loss of the relationship he never had a chance to build with a brilliant young man. It was hard to believe that Zack —geeky, awkward, kind Zack— had _killed_ someone. That he had _stabbed a man in the heart_. But… there was no way any of them could deny it. Not with his blatant testimony of guilt.

The whole ordeal was emotionally exhausting, down to the last moment spent with the Jeffersonian team. By the time Brennan fled, followed closely by Booth, presenting an opportunity to exit, Lance was thankful to finally leave the group to their grief and head home.

Emily walked silently with him to the car, understanding in her brilliant intuitive way that he was overwhelmed. The rush of traffic outside the car was the only sound on the car ride home, relaxing Lance and allowing everything he had been feeling—the emotional roller coaster of the past six hours—to dissipate, leaving him numb. Emily broke the silence only once, as they trekked up the stairs to his apartment, squeezing his shoulder and whispering a few words of encouragement in his ear. By the he stepped through his front door, he was simply bone tired. Not sad, not relieved, not guilty. Just…tired.

All he wanted to do now was stumble into his bedroom and fall asleep, but the universe had other ideas. As he was dragging himself through the living room, he spotted a package on the coffee table and stopped dead in his tracks. _When did that get there?_

Behind him, he heard the deadbolt slide into place and Emily set her bag down with a whump. As she came up beside him, he was leaning over the nondescript cardboard box, reading the equally average label. It was addressed to him, with his full name, the return address listing some company in Montana.

“Oh, right. I forgot about that,” Emily huffed a sigh, “It was delivered… yesterday? Or the day before, I think. I picked it up from the front office earlier today. They were getting pissy about it not getting claimed,” she sounded distinctly annoyed by that, and Sweets could definitely relate; there had been more important things on their minds.

But that still begged the question… what the hell was it? Exhaustion momentarily forgotten, Lance carefully reached out and picked it up. It was… surprisingly light, considering its size—it was a perfect cube as wide as his chest. Sweets felt his eyebrows knit together and a faint headache begin to build behind his eyes. He did _not_ need this mystery. Not after Gormogon and Zack’s arrest. _Why now?_ he couldn’t help but lament, _Of all times, why now?_

“Any idea what it is?” Emily spoke from where she leant curiously over his shoulder.

“No,” he muttered back, preoccupied (and still utterly exhausted, moving through a fugue), before wandering into the kitchen to find a scissor.

Something in his voice or mannerism must have tipped the profiler off because she followed him like a concerned shadow, a frown marring her own face.

Lance only had to dig through his cluttered ‘junk’ drawer for a few seconds before uncovering a battered pair of scissors and returning his attention to the package. He ran the blade over the taped seams of the box, freeing it in three deft strokes. Still frowning, he lifted each flap with care, revealing a mass of bubble wrap and releasing a strange wave of odor that was familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. It was mostly plastic, yes, which was to be expected, but there was something else too. After a moment of hesitation, he reached into the box and began to part the layers of bubble wrap with care. With each layer pushed aside, Lance could smell the familiar _something_ more and more. It was… leathery. And sort of musty, in an unpleasant sort of way. And then… there was something else. Something… metallic?

 _Iron_.

There was something very wrong with this, he knew it with every fiber of his being, but he was too… committed to stop now.

Wait, no. It was more like… watching himself move without prompting. It was like the bit of his consciousness that was _him_ was trapped somewhere deep in his mind, watching his body move autonomously, _screaming,_ pounding against an invisible wall… begging himself to stop.

He knew what was happening. He knew who the package was from. He knew he should stop. He knew that whatever lurked in the depths of the box was horrible. But he simply kept moving, shaking hands seeking out the edge of each plastic sheet.

Faintly, he was aware of a pressure building in his chest, a lack of air passing through his nose, a concerned and welcomingly warm hand squeezing his shoulder, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the sight before him. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t twitch, couldn’t _stop_ , as his hands shakily drew aside the final layer to reveal…

No. _No._

It couldn’t be. It just… _couldn’t_.

Lance stumbled away from the box, eyes unfocused, unseeing, until his back slammed against somethi—no, against the opposite counter. A black blob some part of him recognized as Emily moved through his field of vision, but it didn’t register. His ears were full of his pounding heart, and his mind was stalled like a scratched record, echoing over the sight imprinted on his eyes like the afterimages left from a blinding light.

Worn dark leather, stained darker at the top edge where—

They were soft and malleable but so very firm and unyielding, constricting and grounding and—

The frayed edges, battered by time and use, impatient fingers, desperate twisting arms—

The glint of metal buckles, spotted with dark red, the cold kiss brushing over his wrists when—

Staring at them, unseeing and numb, huddled in the corner, pressed against cool stone, as far away as he could get, hands clenched in rough fabric, ears straining for—

The jangle of metal, the scrape of wood, the slide of a blade against—

Mangled painful fingers clumsily tracing over firm wiry ridges lining the cracks scattered across his skin, aching with every—

The cool touch trailing down his chest, cutting him to the core with dread before the sharpened edge ever even—

Pain, blinding pain, throbbing through his foot and up his leg, cutting across his chest and shoulder, following every touch _he_ —

A smooth hand, a chilling chuckle, a finger tracing down his cheek to his throat and—

Unforgiving hardness, under his back, under his head, rolling back and forth, slamming up and down, maybe he’ll knock himself out, maybe the pain will finally—

A hand lands on his shoulder, pressing down, and he stills instantly, frozen in fear of what he knows comes next…

_Now, now, Lance._

The hand tightens on his shoulder.

_You don’t want to pass out on me, do you?_

No no nononono, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to pass out, he doesn’t want the pain that follows, he’ll do anything, _anything_ —

He’s aware of the hardness rolling across his head and how that means he’s vigorously shaking it, but the hand on his shoulder is shaking _him_ and that doesn’t fit the sickly smooth chuckle echoing through his ears and he’s not sure what to do…

“ _Breathe!_ ” a desperate voice breaks through, “Lance, you’ve got to _breathe_ , damn it!”

The plea opens the floodgates and cool biting air rushes through his throat and there’s burning in his eyes and the hand has moved to his wrist and is squeezing it and there’s nothing _there_ and he doesn’t understand because he’s tied to the table and the pain is going to start again any minute and he’s just so… utterly tired.

He won’t be mad if he sleeps, will he?

He just can’t stay awake anymore.

Surely that would be different; it’s not like he’s knocking himself out.

He’s just so tired…and it’s too much.

It’s all too much.

The darkness floats along the edges of his vision and he struggles to keep his eyes open, staring in unfocused desperation at the bright light hovering over his face.

Just let him sleep.

 _Please_ , just let him sleep…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?  
> For those of you who are wondering, no Zack will not be disappearing. He will, however, not be appearing for some time now.  
> But... now we get to really move into the Ghost plot line! I'm so excited!!!  
> Please, let me know what you think :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweets recovers from the events of last chapter and the BAU roll up their sleeves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a few things to know about this chapter:  
> 1) It's LOOOOONG. Like.. 2x my average chapter. I debated cutting out the last scene, but a friend convinced me to stick to my original plan so I just hunkered down and hit my head against the wall until I got everything I wanted in. It's a little daunting but I'm glad I listened to him.  
> 2) There is an OC. She is a doctor, specifically Lance's therapist. She is necessary. She will not be a main character. She will likely appear even less that Caroline Julian in the long run. Just... Heads up.  
> 3) I realized while writing this (since I've been re-watching Criminal Minds lately) that Will's accent is... not that strong. And, well, i apologize to anyone with a strong opinion or something, but I've committed myself to a strong cajun accent and you can pry it from my cold dead hands.  
> 4) Not set during any episodes.  
> and  
> 5) Lull before the storm. Enjoy it while you can :)

The first thing he became aware of was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. It felt like there was a rope stretched between his ears, being twisted tighter and tighter until it reached an unbearable point of tension, before being twisted some more. The next thing he felt was a burning sort of throb echoing through his entire body, radiating from his chest, and a sharp stabbing sensation at the nape of his neck. He rolled his head to the side and automatically reached up to touch the epicenter of the pain, an involuntary groan slipping past his lips as he found his arm heavy and numb, unable to move more than a few inches off the… off the bed?

It was only then that he registered to soft brush of the blankets and the bright fluorescent lights glowing behind his eyelids. There was a steady beeping in the background, the murmur of voices a few feet away, and the heavy scent of antiseptic hanging in the air.

He was in the hospital.

Swallowing against the dryness in his throat and wincing at the way it made his head throb, Lance cautiously cracked his eyes open. The blinding whiteness that met him, however, had him immediately slamming them closed and letting out another pained groan.

A gasp echoed from beside his bed, and a sudden weight landed on his arm, “Lance?”

A smile twitched across his lips at the warm familiar voice—JJ’s voice. Wanting to see his friend, he carefully slid his eyes open again, before flinching at the brightness and aborting his attempt. JJ’s hand squeezed his arm gently in response and the murmuring voices in the background fell silent.

From somewhere behind JJ, Penelope— because there was no one else it could be— exclaimed, “Oh, thank god! Lance!”

He scrunched up his face in response to the loud noise, but forced his eyes open once more, straining until the light normalized and the shapes before him came into focus. Sure enough, Penelope was looming worriedly over him, clutching a vibrant pink purse that matched the rest of her ensemble, and JJ was seated next to his bed, smiling warmly at him. Behind them were several others—Morgan had a hand on Garcia’s shoulder, with Reid and Prentiss peering around them, and Hotch was standing in the doorway, a relieved smile on his face despite the tense set to his shoulders.

“It’s good to see you awake, Junior,” Derek greeted warmly.

Lance offered a smile in return, feeling a little more grounded as he focused on his friends and pushed his pain into the background. Penelope started sniffling, producing a handkerchief from somewhere and reaching up to dab at her eyes. Spencer gave her an exasperated look and slipped around the others, making his way to the other side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked in concern, eyes flicking over his face, assessing his condition.

“’m k,” he managed, the words coming out hoarse and garbled. He took a moment to swallow, ignoring the disapproving looks he was getting. “Head hurts,” he elaborated shortly, voice still rough but much clearer, “ache everywhere; weak.” To demonstrate, he attempted lifting his arm again, getting it farther this time before he huffed and let it fall on his stomach.

“Here,” Spencer’s voice, accompanied by a rattling, drew his attention to the other side of his bed. With a good deal of effort, he turned his head—wincing once more—to find the genius holding a cup of ice. “This should help your throat,” he murmured, scooping a piece up in a plastic spoon and holding it to his lips.

Lance smiled in thanks and accepted the cool ice shard, sighing as it immediately soothed the dryness in his mouth.

“You had us really worried there, Sweets,” JJ murmured, running a hand up and down his arm.

Lance glanced towards Emily, the only person he knew had been with him. “What happened?” he managed around the ice cube.

Her face twisted a bit and she glanced over her shoulder at Hotch, who was gravitating closer, before looking back at her bed-ridden friend, “I’m… not sure if we should get into that yet.”

He frowned at her, ignoring the way his head throbbed for the moment, and thought back to the last thing he could remember. They had just gotten home, after the thing with Gormogon, and… there was a package on the coffee table, which he opened and—

Oh.

His realization must have shown on his face because everyone around him reacted as one, shifting closer to him and reaching out. JJ moved her free hand to rest on his shoulder, Derek perched on the bed by his leg, Emily gripped his ankle, Penelope caught his hand… even Spencer reached out to touch his opposite arm, and Aaron braced himself at the end of his bed.

“It’s ok!” Penelope cried, squeezing his hand tightly, “You’re safe. Alright, Lancelot?”

Sweets squeezed her hand back in acknowledgement but focused his attention on Emily. “W-what happened?” he asked again.

She gave him a brief wobbly smile before her expression faded back into concern, “I think you had a flashback. The… the package set you off, and you ended up knocking yourself out.”

“The doctor says you have a pretty severe concussion, but Prentiss called an ambulance and they got it under control rather quickly, so there shouldn’t be any lasting damage,” Spencer added, nudging him to catch his attention.

“They’re keeping you under observation for a few days,” Aaron continued, his face a perfect stoic mask, “and the bureau will want to send in someone to do their own evaluation, as well.”

Lance attempted to nod in understanding, hissed, and settled for abusing his throat instead, “Ok.”

“We’ll figure this out, Junior,” Derek promised, patting his leg, “one way or another.” The others nodded in agreement.

He gave his friend a smile, a truly genuine one, and repeated, “Ok.” His former team each returned his smile, filling Lance with warmth and love and, despite the horror that was no doubt yet to come, he felt himself relax. He’d always be safe with them.

The moment spent surrounded by his family was broken suddenly as a man clad in a white coat bustled into the room and began immediately scolding everyone—something about not crowding the patient and letting him rest, et cetera, et cetera…. Lance wasn’t really listening. The doctor whipped out a flashlight and started shining it in his face, reeling off commands as he examined Lance’s pupils, and Sweets obeyed thoughtlessly. Most of his attention, however, was on how his friends had backed away from the bed as requested and were now masking their amusement—swallowing smiles and muffling chuckles. His examination turned out to be rather painless, preoccupied as he was, and the doctor seemed to satisfy himself long before he had expected.

“Now!” the doctor whirled on the group that had quietly observed the examination, “I know you want to see your friend, agents, but I _insist_ … No more than three people at once, understood?” He paused meaningfully, waiting for the chorus of agreement that followed, before giving a sharp nod and turning to collect his supplies. While doing so, he was close enough to Lance that he heard the doctor mutter, “It’s bad enough that we aren’t restricting it to _family_.”

Sweets blinked at the side of his head for a moment before throwing caution to the wind, “Doctor?” The man whipped around in surprise and Lance gave him a wry smile, “They _are_ my family.”

Everything about the man softened slightly and he gave his patient an amused smile, “Well, family or not, _six_ people is not an appropriate number of visitors.”

“Understood,” he let out a breathy chuckle that, unfortunately, strained his throat.

Hotch stepped forward and offered a hand, “Thank you, Doctor Myers, for everything.”

“Certainly, Agent Hotchner, certainly,” the man accepted the handshake even as he moved towards the door. “Just make sure I don’t catch all of you in here at once again!” he called over his shoulder.

“Well,” Morgan chuckled, “You heard the man.”

“We should get back to work,” Emily agreed, standing. A murmur of agreement rippled around the group.

Spencer gave him another gentle nudge, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Yes,” Garcia agreed softly, giving his hand one last squeeze, “Promise you’ll take care of yourself, Sir Sweetness.”

“I promise, Pen,” he murmured, squeezing back.

Quietly, they each took their leave, murmuring their goodbyes, until only JJ and Aaron remained. The BAU leader moved to take the seat on the other side of his bed, giving a small sigh as he sat, “We’re back on the case; Strauss is very concerned about you, Sweets.”

Lance stared at his friend in blatant surprise, eyes a little wide. Objectively he knew Strauss cared about the BAU, but she was such a strict supervisor that is was very hard to remember at times.

“We’ll still have to handle other cases,” Hotch warned gently, “But we _will_ catch him, Lance. You have our word.”

“We won’t leave you alone, either,” JJ promised, “Someone will always be with you.”

Lance let out a shaky breath and swallowed hard, eyes glistening slightly. He didn’t trust his voice, especially not with the state of his throat, but attempted too communicate his thanks as best as he could anyway—nodding and smiling at the pair. It meant so much, to have people who obviously cared for him in his life.

He didn’t know what he’d do without them.

A polite knock at the door broke the moment, causing all three profilers to turn towards the noise. Rossi was smiling at them, one hand raised against the doorframe while his other held a little hand belonging to a small blonde boy—Henry LaMontagne. Jack was bouncing beside his friend, eyes shining as he clutched something close to his chest. Will was standing behind them, smiling down at his son, and Lance could just barely make out Jessica’s frizzy blonde hair in the doorway.

“Are you up for a few more visitors?” Dave asked brightly, humor lacing his tone.

Taking their Uncle Dave’s question as permission, Jack and Henry rushed forward (Jack well in the lead), the adults following more slowly. While Jack skidded to a stop beside Lance’s bed and began hoisting himself onto it, Henry joined his mom at his side, eyes wide and earnest as he added another hand to Lance’s arm.

“Whoa, buddy!” Aaron exclaimed, lurching to his feet and reaching out to stop his son from falling onto his uncle, “Careful!”

Completely ignoring his father, Jack turned the entirety of his attention onto the bedridden therapist, earnestly holding out his precious cargo, “I brought you chocolate pudding, Uncle Lance! Uncle Will said it’s the bestest thing when you aren’t feeling well.”

Lance smiled warmly at his nephew, reaching out with mild effort to solemnly accept the gift (his arm collapsed almost immediately after accepting the package, but the boy didn’t seem to mind). “Thank you very much, Jack,” he murmured roughly after clearing his throat, “That was very thoughtful.”

The boy beamed in response and lurched forward as though he was going to give him a hug, but he caught himself at the last second, looking his uncle up and down warily.

“Are you ok?” a quiet voice drew Lance’s attention to his other nephew.

“I’m fine, Henry,” he assured the boy, shifting the arm he and his mother were gripping in order to offer him a hand. Henry immediately gripped it in both of his smaller hands, and Lance gave them a reassuring squeeze, “My head hurts a bit and I’m tired, but I’m ok. Honest,” he quirked a smile at both of the worried boys.

“I’m glad ta hear that, mon ami,” Will moved to stand behind his son, resting a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “You gave us a right scare fer a minute there.”

“A scare is right!” Jessica exclaimed, coming to a stop at the foot of Lance’s bed. She gave his ankle a light slap and scowled down at him. A moment later, however, her expression melted into one of concern and relief, “I’m glad you’re ok, Lance.”

“Make that two of us,” Dave smiled down at him as he came to a stop beside the writer.

“Thanks,” Sweets smiled at them, warm and content.

Hotch stood, “Nice as this is, we better get going.”

JJ chuckled, “We don’t want the doctor to yell at us again.”

“An’ I need ta be gettin’ to work, unfortunately,” Will agreed.

Henry turned his big eyes to his parents, “Do _I_ need to go?”

“Nooooo,” Jack lamented from his perch on the bed.

Jessica chuckled at them, “No, no, you two rascals are staying with me today. As long as Uncle Lance doesn’t mind, we can stay here for a bit.”

As one, the two boys turned their hopeful eyes on Lance and he fought back a smile, giving them faux considering look, “I _suppose_ you can stay…”

“Yay!” Jack exclaimed, forgetting his earlier caution and throwing himself at his Uncle, awkwardly embracing him. Henry just beamed at them and squeezed Lance’s hand, which he still held. Lance chuckled lightly, despite his throat’s protestations, and maneuvered the hand that still held the chocolate pudding in order to embrace his nephew back.

The other adults grinned at the trio and began wishing their final goodbyes, a quiet shuffling occurring as JJ relinquished her seat to Jessica and moved to join Hotch and Will as they slipped from the room. Rossi, however, moved to take the seat the team leader had just relinquished.

“I’m sticking around too,” he informed the half-smothered therapist when he looked over at him curiously. “Someone needs to stick around to protect you from these two,” he nodded toward the boys.

Sweets beamed at him, happy one of his old team was sticking around, before turning his attention back to his nephews. Henry had relinquished his hand and was attempting to climb onto the bed to join Jack. He nearly toppled off, having only gotten half of his body up, before Jess surged forward and steadied him, quietly urging her nephew to help his friend.

A few moments later, Lance was covered with two small bodies, and he couldn’t be happier. He knew that things were going to get worse before they got better, and he knew he still had to heal and jump through all sorts of hoops before he could do anything to help, but now, in that moment, it didn’t matter. He allowed himself to drown in the warmth, ignore his lingering headache, and forget everything. The world could wait.

* * *

 

Over the next two days, his family was the only bright point in his life. Just as he had expected, things were getting worse before they got better. Now, don’t get him wrong, he _was_ getting better… but, well, as he regained his strength, his frustration and paranoia grew. He wanted to _do_ something, _anything_. He wanted to figure out why _he_ sent him those—those _things_ , and why nothing else had happened yet. He was _crawling out of his skin_. With every update from his family, every “we’re working on it” and “we’ll find him,” Sweets was losing it just a little bit more. He was _done_ with the whole _goddamn thing_.

He was done with sitting around and staring out the window and twiddling his thumbs. He was _done_ with being chased back into bed by nurses, _done_ with the food and the bright lights and the awkward gown and the tiny bathroom… He was _so_ ready to go home. To sleep in his own bed and choose his own activities and maybe (hopefully) help his team, even just a little.

And, finally, it looked like he was getting his wish; he was still rather fuzzy around the edges, rather off balance, and always tired, but Doctor Myers had cleared him for home rest. In a few hours, Emily and Derek were coming by to pick him up and take him to lunch before settling him back at home. Honestly, he couldn’t wait.

There was, unfortunately, one more thing that had to be done before he could leave. One more meeting, with one more doctor, to answer one more question: would he be returning to work?

He already knew the answer, sure enough of his own mental state, and was dreading the appointment with every ounce of his being.

As though summoned by his thoughts, a knock sounded on the doorframe of his room and he glanced up from where he was fighting with lacing his shoes, perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed. There, standing in the portal to the rest of the godforsaken place was a familiar face, one of his coworkers from the Hoover building, another FBI therapist—Dr. Anisa Amin. She was one of the most kind and empathetic people he had ever met, effortlessly shifting to accommodate a patient’s needs and easily reading when to push and when to simply offer support. Anisa reminded Sweets of JJ the most, or perhaps Derek. She was fierce and brilliant, shied away from nothing, and would happily move bureaucratic heaven and earth to help a patient. Her style, however… that was much more up Penelope’s alley. Today she was clad in an eclectic set of patterns, all of which prominently featured various shades of green, from her flowing floral skirt and tree silhouette t-shirt to her neon green hijab. The hijab was so bright Lance almost wanted to squint.

She beamed at him as she entered the room, “Lance, it’s good to see you!”

“Anisa,” he greeted warmly, genuinely pleased that if he had to do this, as least she was the one the FBI sent, “It’s good to see you too.”

“I hear you’re going home today,” she moved to sit beside the bed, a twinkle in her eyes.

Lance nodded, “Yes, I’m leaving before lunch.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I bet you can’t wait to get out of this place,” she gave the room a critical look, startling a laugh out of her coworker.

He snorted, “You have no idea.”

Giving him a smug look, Anisa dug through her bag and pulled out a notebook. Seeing her preparations, Lance couldn’t help shifting uncomfortably on the bed. By the time she looked back up, however, he had managed to settle himself back down and returned her smile with one of his own.

“Alright,” she tapped her pen against the notebook, “you know how this works, so let’s get started.”

“Actually, uh… I don’t think that’s necessary,” he offered, the end of his sentence sounding like a question.

Anise gave him a sympathetic yet reprimanding look, “Lance, I know you want to work, and I know how much helping others helps you, but you _just_ —”

“No, that—that’s not what I mean,” he interrupted her before immediately flushing at the look she was giving him. He cleared his throat and reached up to rub the base of his neck, “I… I _know_ I’m not of sound mind right now, Ani.”

“Lance…” she murmured, face softening into a look of concern.

“I mean, I want to do _something_ , but I know I can’t be a therapist until I can…” he trailed off, words escaping him and, after working is mouth like a fish for a few moments, buried his face in his hands. He _hated_ it, but it was true; he was far too emotional to be the rock for his patients to lean on right now. There was every likelihood that trying to help someone else would trigger something for him instead.

“Ok,” she said gently, ducking her head to meet his eyes and coaxing him to look at her, “That’s ok, Lance. I understand. But we need to do this,” she tapped her notebook again for emphasis.

“Ani…” he tried, sagging back against the bed, arms braced behind him.

“The bureau needs an update on your psychological situation,” she persisted, “Even if you aren’t returning to work as a therapist.”

A ragged sigh pushed past his lips and he lifted a hand to wipe across his face, “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Look, Lance, I think I know you pretty well by now,” Anisa leant forward and pointed the end of her pen at him, “And I’m pretty sure that you won’t be happy being benched for this entire process. If it were up to _me_ you’d be on leave until this bastard is caught, but…”

Lance couldn’t help looking up sharply, eyes widening in horror, “Ani! I—”

She lifted a hand to stop his protestation, “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no two ways around it. You’re scarred—you have been since before I met you.”

“Ani…” he tried again.

She shook her head slightly, “But for all your scars, you were _functional_. You had healed. But _now_ … if even _you_ are admitting you can’t do your job—”

“That’s not my point,” he interrupted a little desperately, “I’m not stable right now, sure, but I’m still perfectly capable of _thinking_! I don’t…” Lance swallowed hard, doing his best to push down the swirl of emotions that had begun popping up since the beginning of the conversation. The panic and fear and the pressing sensation of being trapped, the hopelessness, the _uselessness_ …. He felt like all the stability and control he had fought so hard for was slipping through his fingers more and more with every moment he sat around doing nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Sweets gathered himself and met the other therapist’s steady gaze. “Did you read what they figured out yesterday?”

Anisa blinked at his sudden question, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, “About the… sample?

Lance nodded, eyes drifting to the floor, and sighed. He took a moment, eyes shut, to gather his thoughts and strength before he powered on. “It’s mine, Ani,” he nearly whispered, “All of that blood on those stupid things… it’s _mine_.” He glanced up, taking in the soft understanding look on his coworker’s face, and shook his head, “Do you know what that means?”

She nodded slightly, “The memories are coming back.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, but that’s not…” he squeezed his eyes shut, “It means that… _he_ didn’t use them with anyone else, that he didn’t clean them, that he _saved_ them. And then he _sent_ them to me. He tracked me down and sent me a reminder of everything he did. Of… Of how he’s _not done_. And… it’s all I can think about.”

“Lance,” she murmured his name, sounding broken. Lance slid his eyes open to find her sitting there with her pen dangling uselessly from her fingers and her notepad forgotten on her lap.

He gave her a small smile, “I can understand your reasoning, trying to keep me safe and out of the way. My entire family would prefer that too. _Hell_ ,” he choked out, emotion welling unbidden up his throat, “ _I_ would prefer that, but… I’d go _insane,_ ” on the last word he let out a shaky laugh that was almost a sob.

A moment later, to his utter mortification, Lance felt the wetness in his eyes begin to spill over. Letting out a frustrated noise, he started wiping desperately at them, attempting to stop the tears before they leaked down his face. He felt like his skin was too small, like there was some sort of energy bouncing around inside him and frying his nerves. He wanted to shoot to his feet and start pacing, to rush out the door and do something, _anything_ , but… he couldn’t muster the energy to move. He couldn’t muster the energy to do anything but suck in painful gasps of air and push back the tears he _did not want_.

He had practice doing it, so it only took a few moments to suck down the unwanted emotion and stem the flow of tears, but it felt like much longer—painful awkward minutes full of gasping and wiping—before he looked back up at Anisa. She was still seated, looking on with a soft sympathetic expression that made it all the worse. Defiantly, he lifted his chin and met her eyes, reinforcing his emotional fortifications as much as he could.

“I’m not ok,” he declared, voice steady, “But my reasoning and judgement are sound. I _know_ I can’t function as a therapist and I _know_ I can’t work on my case, but I need to do _something_. Chain me to a desk and give me nothing but files and paperwork and forms,” he let out a breathy chuckle, “ _anything_ as long as it keeps me busy, but _please_ ,” his voice cracked again, “I beg of you, don’t suspend me. I… I don’t think I could survive that.”

Anisa had sat through the entire speech, including his minor breakdown, with nothing but patience and sympathy plastered across her face. Following his final declaration, the doctor sat there for a few beats, carefully examining his face, before a wry smile flitted across her face. She let out a sigh, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“What?” Lance blinked at her.

“Like I said,” she tilted her slightly, “I think I know you pretty well by now. I’m surprised you admitted you aren’t ok, but I knew you would want to work.”

Sweets couldn’t help the hope that swelled within him, “And?”

Anisa gave him an amused look, eyes sparkling, “And I might be convinced, depending on how you’re doing and if I can keep an eye on your mental state until this is all over.”

“Yes,” he leant forward eagerly, “Anything.”

A grin split her face, “Anything?” she snorted, “Be careful what you sign up for, Lance.”

Lance felt his face flush and gave a sheepish shrug, “I trust you?”

Anisa gave a delighted chuckle, “Alright.” She gave her notepad a pointed tap, “Let’s get started then.”

Feeling as though he had jumped headfirst a little too soon, he eyed the simple tools with trepidation, “I thought we already…”

“Oh, no,” she laughed, “We’re having a full session, and that’s final.”

A groan slipped past his lips without his consent, and he let his head drop back. He knew it would probably be worth it, in the end at least, but he _hated_ this type of session. It always left him exhausted and drained, his old wounds rubbed raw. It was necessary, he knew, to peel away scabs and clear infected tissue so he could heal, but it hurt.

But, he reflected, eyeing Anisa waiting patiently a few feet away, perhaps it would do him good to go over everything that had happened since the last time he did this. Maybe it would help him find his footing, help him stand strong against what he knew was coming, sooner or later.

* * *

The next few days were dramatically uneventful. They were, in fact, almost painful. Sweets went home, he slept, he wandered around the apartment, he visited with whoever showed up to visit, and he barely set a foot outside his front door. It left him feeling like he had traded one prison for another, regardless of how much he preferred his current situation to the hospital. He was full of pent up energy and frustration that only grew as he regained his stamina and his concussion healed. Once his dizzy spells became less common, he took to routinely pacing his living room.

He understood his family’s reasoning, though; they were worried about him. There was a murderer out for his blood and they had no idea what to do except hunker down and protect him as much as they could. Which was _entirely logical_. He understood, he _really_ did. Honest. It just… also left an itch somewhere he couldn’t for the life of him reach.

On the fourth day after his release from the hospital, nearly a week after the incident itself, he finally managed to drive his body guards insane too. As had become routine, Lance was pacing in the living room, vaguely watching TV, while Emily and Derek hunched over his dining table, piles of files and papers spread around them. Lance knew better than to try and help; they were rather insistent he stay away from anything pertaining to the case. Which, well, he could admit it was a good idea. His most recent panic attack had been triggered by an evidence photo of… the restraints.

Unlike the past few days, however, none of the profilers had managed to dig up any new information (no matter how useless it always ended up being) so the pair in the kitchen were looking through old evidence for the umpteenth time, and Lance was particularly restless. According to the agreement he had reached with Anisa, he could return to desk work any day now… as of _yesterday_. He was doing his best not to be distracting, but the frustrating itch was just _that much more_ insistent, and he couldn’t help his agitation.

Around noon, Morgan let out a huge groan, tossed a file onto the haphazard pile in the center of the table, and sent an exasperated look towards Sweets. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, “We’re not getting anywhere and you’re wearing a hole into your rug.”

Lance froze mid stride and turned to give the profiler a curious look.

“Yeah,” Prentiss huffed a sigh, “Let’s pack this up for now and take a trip.”

“A trip?” Sweets echoed hopefully.

“Yeah, Junior,” Derek stood and began rifling through the stacks and imposing a level of order to the chaos, “A trip.”

Excited, nearly vibrating with redirected energy, the younger profiler watched as his friends made quick work of gathering up the files and returning them to their rightful boxes. Before too long, he was being ushered out of his apartment and down into an SUV, and not long after that they were settling into the Hoover building parking garage. The anticipation that had grown over the ride turned the short walk to the building into torture. Thankfully, Derek, seeing Lance’s pent up energy, clapped him on the back and told him they’d meet him in his office.

Needing no more urging, he had made short work of getting through security and up to his supervisor’s office. She was, surprisingly, ready for him—complete with Anisa sitting in the other chair. The meeting was short. They did little more that extract a promise from him that he’d meet with Anisa every week (“at _least_ , Lance, you understand?”), watch his mental health, and stay out of the field before returning his credentials and handing him a list of tasks.

Saying he was thrilled would be a massive understatement.

Upon his arrival to his office, Lance discovered his friends had wheedled someone into unlocking it for them and had already replicated their disaster zone from this morning all over his coffee table and sitting area. It was almost comical how similar it looked, almost as though they had simply teleported the mess rather than packing and unpacking the files.

They glanced up from their files when he entered, a question written across their faces, and Sweets just beamed. Understanding what that meant, they smiled back—just as thrilled for him as he was. With his heart lighter than it had been in days, Lance gladly endured Derek’s slight ribbing and Emily’s playful comments about his eagerness to return to work. He was just relieved to sit behind his desk again, a familiar sense of calm surrounding him and comforting him as he settled into the repetitive patterns of paperwork. That sense was only amplified by the presence of his friends as they settled into their own work, leaving a comfortable silence in the office punctuated only by the rustling of paper and the scratch of pens.

It was nice.

It did not, however, last nearly as long as he had expected. After only about fifteen minutes of peaceful work, the door to his office flew open, revealing a familiar figure he really should have expected to see. After all, Agent Booth was not known for being a patient man.

“Sweets! I heard you—” Booth stopped in the doorway, a look of startled confusion washing over his face, and took in the scene before him. “Uh, Prentiss?”

Sparing a glance up from her work, the profiler smiled in greeting, “Booth.”

Turning in his seat, Morgan gave him a similar smile and offered a hand, “Agent Booth, it’s good to finally meet you. SSA Derek Morgan.”

Still obviously off balance, the other agent accepted the handshake, “You BAU?”

“Sure am,” he flashed Lance an amused look over his shoulder.

Booth paused and gave them all a mildly concerned considering look, “Is there something I don’t know about?” When they just gave him questioning looks, he gave a shrug, “I mean, first Sweets goes AWOL and I hear he had some kind of medical emergency, then he shows back up out of the blue with two BAU agents who are hunkered down in his office clearly working on a case?”

Derek and Emily glanced at each other before looking to Sweets, causing Booth’s eyes to narrow in suspicion. While Lance appreciated their willingness to allow him to decide whether to tell Booth or not, he couldn’t help but wish they weren’t so obvious about it. He did _want_ Booth to get involved; he didn’t want anyone in his new team to know, to look at him with the broken sympathy and careful treatment that inevitably came from anyone who knew (save his family; they were different somehow). But, all the same, he didn’t want to lie to the agent either. It… it was just messy.

Heaving a sigh, Lance ran a hand over his face and gave his friends a half-hearted glare before turning his attention to the other agent. He wouldn’t _lie_ , but he would go spilling his guts either—no matter how carefully the man examined him. “The night we caught Gormogon, I…” he shifted uncomfortably before hedging, “ _fell_ in my kitchen and… well. It was severe enough that they kept me under observation for a few days.”

Booth gave him a dubious look, “You… _fell_.”

“I was there?” Prentiss offered helpfully, “I called the ambulance.”

Booth turned his examination on the profiler for a moment, raising his eyebrows, before turning back to Lance. “I had no idea you were that clumsy, Sweets,” he teased, though it seemed different from normal. It was… more strained. Still disbelieving, with a heavy dose of worry hidden beneath the humor. It made Lance feel guilty. Unable to hold back a wince, he hoped the far too insightful man would simply attribute it to the teasing and nothing deeper (however futile he knew that to be).

“As for us,” Morgan spoke up, flashing a white grin in Booth’s direction and effectively redirecting the conversation, “We’re just crashing here to do some work on a case. Sweets isn’t even helping us.”

Lance couldn’t help the disgruntled sound he made, “You could at least _admit_ you’re babysitting me.”

“You could pretend you don’t like it, Junior,” he countered teasingly, eyes sparkling.

Lance simply rolled his eyes and shrugged. Truth be told, he was thankful they were here— _extremely_ so. But he wasn’t going to admit that, especially not in front of Booth. “I don’t see you enough,” he settled on saying. (Based on the looks he received, his message was heard loud and clear.)

“Ok,” Booth broke the moment, “That answers a few questions, for sure, but Sweets…” he frowned at the therapist, “I was notified that all of our appointments have been canceled. As in, none for the foreseeable future.”

Sweets winced (again). Right. _That_.

“I’m just a little confused is all,” the agent prodded carefully, “we haven’t met even once since we made that deal, and considering how eager you were…”

“Actually, Booth,” he started hesitantly, a sheepish grimace still plastered across his face, “ _all_ of my appointments have been canceled.”

“What?” the agent blinked at him.

“I… need to go through recertification to function as a counselor again,” he explained hesitantly, “And honestly, I’m not ready.”

“Not… ready?” Booth was almost gaping, “For recertification? _Why_?”

Sweets shifted uncomfortably, “Because of personal reasons I’d rather not get into.”

“Booth,” Prentiss spoke up, shifting subtly to get into the man’s line of sight and redirect his attention, “Being a therapist requires a great deal of emotional stability and control. Sometimes breaks are not only healthy, but necessary.”

The agent considered her for a moment before nodding, accepting the idea much faster than Sweets had anticipated, “Ok. So, I suppose that means I won’t be seeing you much?” he gave him a questioning look.

The therapist blinked at him for a moment before he caught up to what he meant. “Oh!” he shook his head, “No, no. I’m still certified and working as a profiler and consultant. I’ll still be around.”

“Oh,” Booth eyed him a bit, “Alright then.” After a beat, a mischievous grin stretched across his face, “In that case, watch out for Caroline. She’s on a warpath to finish… Zack’s trial as soon as possible.”

Lance frowned, “I thought he was pleading guilty and _non compos mentis_.”

“Yeah,” he heaved a sigh, “But he still needs to go before a judge. Honestly, she probably won’t need any of out help, but… just be aware.”

He could help but smile at the simple sentiment, “Thanks, Booth.”

“No problem!” he declared cheerfully, backing towards the door. He glanced at the two BAU profilers, “Good luck with… whatever that is.”

Morgan snorted, “Thanks.”

Prentiss just chuckled at him and turned back to her work.

Hesitating once more in the doorway, Booth flashed a smile Sweets’ way. It was… one of the most honest ones he’d ever seen he agent direct at him. “See you on the next case, Sweets.”

After a beat of surprise, the profiler nodded, “Yeah, thanks—” and that was all he got out before Booth disappeared and the door slammed shut. He huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and turned back to his paperwork with a smile.

Booth could be rather insufferable, but he was _really_ looking forward to the next case with the Jeffersonian team. They were absolutely wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your patience while I took forever with this chapter. I mean, wow. Over two months. That's pretty sad. But to everyone who is sticking with me, I really appreciate it. It means a lot that others enjoy this story as much as I do.  
> As always, please let me know what you think.  
> See you (hopefully) soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


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